


The Holiday

by BambooCanoe



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Adventures in Italy, Adventures in Maryland, Beverly and Will are brother and sister, Christmas AU, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Fluff, Eventual relationship, Falling In Love, Family Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, Kimmond, Multi, Sass and Dogs, Slow Burn, The Holiday AU, adoption is a theme, if the author's brave enough to post that chapter, it's not vegan, perhaps some implied murder and cannibalism, see if you can spot all the character cameos, someone loses a tooth, stay tuned, violence happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BambooCanoe/pseuds/BambooCanoe
Summary: Alright.This started as a dumb little scene dropping Hannibal and Will into the classic, corny and over-acted holiday movie,The Holiday, and I thought that was the end of it.But here I am, an entire year later, with this absolute monstrosity it's gorgeous I love it I'm having so much funWhile some elements remain clear and definite echoes ofThe Holiday(watch it if you haven't, it's cute, Jude Law is in it as a guy namedGraham), this has really turned into its own beast that I just keep feeding.The story’s timeline kicks off today, December 13, 2018, and theideais to post daily updates through to January 2nd, 2019. I am, however, hosting some friends for a week and graduating from college this weekend so there will likely be a few missed days and a backlog dump to catch up.Anyway.Without further ado,,Welcome to The Holiday.





	1. The Way the Cookie Crumbled

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. 
> 
> This started as a dumb little scene dropping Hannibal and Will into the classic, corny and over-acted holiday movie, _The Holiday_ , and I thought that was the end of it. 
> 
> But here I am, an entire year later, with this absolute monstrosity it's gorgeous I love it I'm having so much fun 
> 
> While some elements remain clear and definite echoes of _The Holiday_ (watch it if you haven't, it's cute, Jude Law is in it as a guy named **Graham** ), this has really turned into its own beast that I just keep feeding. 
> 
> The story’s timeline kicks off today, December 13, 2018, and the _idea_ is to post daily updates through to January 2nd, 2019. I am, however, hosting some friends for a week and graduating from college this weekend so there will likely be a few missed days and a backlog dump to catch up. 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Without further ado,,
> 
> **Welcome to The Holiday.**

* * *

The pop and whine of a flashbulb.

_The slam and hollow, metallic echo of a push bar door swinging open in a concrete stairwell._

Footsteps approached Hannibal’s office chair, an unhurried journey with plenty of pauses to consider the surroundings. He shut his eyes, his breath loud in his ears, and his fingers tightened around the puncture wound bleeding on his right thigh.

_Heels clattered down the stairs, then a cry rang out and a slap resounded as she caught herself against the wall, her ankle smarting. She kicked off the heels and swiped them up, hiking her skirt higher so she could descend faster._

Hannibal looked up from under his limp fringe when the commissario stopped in front of him, tapping the butt of his pen on his notepad. Another flashbulb went _POCKwreeeeeee_ across the room and Hannibal’s eye flickered, but he didn’t look over.

“Dottore.” The commissario greeted, heavily accented.

“Yes.”

“This man is a patient of yours?”

“Yes.”

_POCKwreeeeeee_

“You say he attack you.”

“Yes.”

“You killed him?”

_POCKwreeeeeee_

“Yes.”

_She leapt the last two stairs and threw herself against the push bar of the exit door: it dumped her into the main lobby. She tucked her hair behind her ear and checked surrounding faces. Not here yet. She fast-walked towards coat check, hearing the bank of elevators ding behind her like the death toll of a town bell. There wasn’t enough crowd to get lost in. She fumbled her claim tag onto the counter, heels still claw-gripped in one hand, and watched the attendant go for her coat like a gambler watches their betted racehorse._

“You are lucky to have your wit, Dottore.” The commissario said, glancing back towards the body lying facedown on the rug across the office. The dead man’s face was turned away from them, a dark halo staining the carpet beneath his head. A forensic scientist knelt in front of him and leaned to one side, her camera aloft.

_POCKwreeeeeee_

“He is easily twice your size.”

Hannibal nodded and lowered his head.

_“Beverly!”_

_She ducked her head and walked faster, a bullet headed for the exit. She didn’t want to talk to him. She_ hated _him. He was running up behind her._

_“Beverly come on, wait.”_

_She rounded on him and shoved him back before his fingers had even brushed her arm. He had the gall to look shocked._

_“Why did you follow me?” She demanded. Zeller raised his hands in surrender._

_“You left in a hurry, I just wanted to make sure you were—“_

_“What,_ okay _?” Beverly gave a laugh and advanced on him. Step for step he backed away. “Do you know what you_ did _, Brian?”_

_“I thought—“_

_“No I don’t think you do, ever! You’ve strung me along for_ three years _, you never cut the goddamn cord so I’m still holding on. Do you think I’m going to be_ okay _, then, when you look me directly in the eye, in that fucking room full of people, and announce you’re getting married to someone else?”_

_“Bev, I didn’t know you— I thought we were just really good friends—“_

_“Recheck the fucking definition.” She snapped, wrestling her heels back on. He tried to stop her before she could reach the revolving door but she froze him where he stood with a poisonous glare._

_“Shouldn’t you be up with your fiancé?”_

_“Beverly, please.”_

_She gave an angry tsk and waved him off. “Get bent, Zeller.”_

The bottom half of the nail on Hannibal's left index finger was missing, torn off in the violent scuffle. The raw bed throbbed beneath the bulky wrap of bandaging.

A hand touched his shoulder.

“You get away for a while.” The commissario said, not unkind. “It is almost the holidays. Get out of town, stay with family. Recuperate away from here.”

Hannibal said nothing. He brushed trivial cotton debris from the intact leg of his trousers. The EMTs would be back shortly to place a single suture and seal the bleeding puncture on his other leg closed.

“You have someone you see? A therapist?” The commissario pressed, leaning forward to try to see Hannibal’s face.

“My psychiatrist moved her practice to the United States. I have not established a replacement.”

“So go to see her. Find a quiet place, rental house nearby, like a cottage, not a hotel. Yes?”

Hannibal looked up.

“Yes.”

* * *

Beverly held on to the ball of white-hot fury until she stepped past the threshold of her house and closed the door behind her. She stood in the foyer, staring at nothing.

A soft _clack clack clack_ announced the approach of a little tawny wire-haired mutt, who looked up at her with shining marble black eyes and ears too big for his head. She blinked him into focus and his tail gave a nervous wag in greeting.

“Corkie.”

The dog tipped his head, ears trembling.

“Men are pigs."

Bev dragged her feet out of her pinching heels while the first tear slid hot down her cheek, hitting her foot as she trudged into the kitchen and pulled a mug from the dish drainer. The neck of a whiskey bottle clacked against the ceramic; her hands were still shaking. She was angry. She was so, _so_ \-- god, disappointed. Livid! With herself. With him and his stupid fucking groom-to-be. How could he _do_ that? In front of everyone, everyone who knew her foolish attachment, still clinging to hope three years down the line? She thought _he’d_ known it, too. She thought he’d _reciprocated_ and they were just waiting for the line to bring them back to dancing together.

She poured herself too much, unzipping the back of her wine-red dress. The whiskey burned her throat.

Stupid that she’d still believed that could be them. Stupid. God, everyone saw. Everyone saw, and they’d _looked_ at her.

Why had she believed that could ever be them?

By the time she was halfway up the worn stairs to her bedroom, her tiny distressed hiccups had grown into full-blown, keening sobs. Corkie scampered in her wake and hopped up onto the bed, whining.

In her rattiest pajamas, Beverly cried her way through the house. She cried Corkie’s food into his dish and cried his water bowl with fresh water. She cried the trash out into the bins behind the house. She cried the locks on all the doors and cried the curtains closed, then cried into the living room and kicked a footstool over, watching it topple a stack of magazines and set the lamp on the side table wobbling. It stayed upright. She curled her fists around the urge to lash out and knock it over anyway.

She scrubbed tears from her face with the back of her arm.

The couch squeaked when she flopped down onto it and she pulled the dog toy responsible out from under her, tossing it across the room. Corkie hopped up and planted himself on her chest, tucking his chin against her sternum and perking his ears forward.

_Bad day, huh mom._

Beverly snorted a little more productively than she’d anticipated and ruffled his ears.

“Nah. I just have to quit my job, Corkers.” She shut her eyes, exhaling through the hot puffiness of her face. Her body sank into the couch like a collapsing flan. “Destroy my steady income. Leave the state. Why not.”

Corkie exhaled in a commiserating puff.

A strange, muffled tone sounded from the kitchen and Beverly turned her head, too wrung out to care beyond cursory curiosity. She didn’t recognize the tone, but it wasn't the smoke detector and it wasn't the doorbell so it wasn't a pressing matter.

The noise came again. Corkie jumped down and clambered into the kitchen, barking. Beverly winced.

“Too _loud_ , Corkie.”

The chime sounded again and she dragged herself from the sofa with a groan. Corkie was yapping stern threats at the underside of the kitchen table.

"Corkie! Enough. Inside voice."

Her phone screen, sitting on the edge of the table, was lit up with notifications.

HouseSwap _1m ago_

RE: Countryside Cottage (listing 213271)

(6 images attached)

HouseSwap _2m ago_

RE: Countryside Cottage (listing 213271)

Hello Ms Katz,

I hope this message finds you well. My name is Hann…

The preview cut the rest of the message. Royally flummoxed, Beverly scooped up the phone.

_Hello Ms Katz,_

_I hope this message finds you well. My name is Hannibal Lecter, I run a small psychiatric practice in Florence, Italy. The lead-up to the holidays has been unusually taxing on me this year and I find myself in want of a secluded place to unwind; I stumbled upon your cottage and I must say, it is idyllic. I recognize that the notice is short and the timing rather unorthodox and for that I offer my sincerest apologies, but I believed that even a scant chance was worth reaching out for when faced with such a tranquil location. It is beautiful._

_I will provide some photographs of my own dwellings to allow for a more informed decision, if you haven’t already made up your mind two sentences ago. We are enjoying the peace outside of tourist season in the present course, lines will be short should the local attractions pique your interest. I am happy to provide the Firenze Pass for additional ease of visitation to all the heavy hitters the city has to offer, should you agree to an exchange._

_Best regards,_

_H. Lecter_

Beverly sat on the edge of the table.

“What the… everloving…”

She pulled up the images, blinked her eyes wider and brought the phone closer to her face.

“This can’t be real."

The six attached pictures painted a scene of quiet, high-class Florentine living: spacious rooms full of saturated colors, fantastic furnishings and so many opulent ornamentations it could have been a museum. The last image was taken in a private courtyard, showing lemon trees and a fountain that depicted a maiden pouring clear water from an urn. Bev turned the phone to show Corkie.

“Can you see this? Am I seeing this? Is this real? This has to be a scam. This isn’t real. Is it real?”

Corkie sat down at her feet and whined. Beverly reread the message, then read it again. She shut her eyes and gave her head a vigorous shake. When the dizzy spell passed the pictures were the same, the message was still there.

The legs of her kitchen chair shrieked against the floor as she yanked it out and sat down, copying the sender’s name — Hannibal, like that ancient general with the elephants? — into a web search. She found listings for a practicing psychiatrist in Florence and a street address for his office. So that much, at least, was true.

She returned to the HouseSwap app and scrolled through the message and attached pictures again. Corkie set his head on her foot as Beverly clicked a nail against the case of her phone, thinking.

“He’d have to look after you as well as the house and I doubt he has any pets of his own. He lives in a museum.”

Absently, she tapped the ‘reply’ button. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, hesitant, and she blew out a long breath.

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

_Dr. Lecter:_

_Thank you for your message. Wouldn't you know it, I'm quite taxed myself at the moment and recklessly keen on the idea of an escape. Your offer is very (very) generous._

_Fair warning, I have a dog, and I can't take him with me. He's small, relatively quiet, well behaved and easy to please. Terrible guard dog since he gets along with everyone. Not fond of the cold or the snow so he won't be begging for walks. Still, I understand dogs aren't everyone's cup of tea._

_For your consideration,_

_B. Katz_

She waited on tenterhooks, vacillating between the desperate hope that Lecter said ‘no problem’ and the desperate hope that he dropped the idea. God, _Florence_! An entire _ocean_ away from here, from her tainted job and tear-stained pillow. She was just shattered enough to do something crazy and impulsive right now, like buy a ticket to Italy a week before the holidays. She marveled at the idea that a complete stranger would want to trade _that house_ for this measly fleabag of a Manchester cottage, but it couldn’t have come at a better time. She scrolled through the pictures again just to reassure herself they were real. She still wasn't entirely convinced.

But it was definitely away, and away she wished to go. God, Zeller’s face if he saw her in a place like _this_ …

Beverly buried her head in her arms and groaned.

“Corkie, you should have cut me off. I’m wigging out.”

The alert tone wasn’t loud but it made her jump all the same.

_Ms. Katz, I am in your deepest debt. He sounds charming and I could use the unassuming company. I'd be happy to look after him for you. - H_

“Okay.”

Corkie gave a startled bark when Beverly stood up sharply and slapped her phone down on the table.

“Okay!” She repeated, with a slight edge of hysteria. She charged up the stairs, dragging her suitcase out from under her bed and throwing the zippers open. Corkie was bouncing around her heels and barking.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Corkie.” Beverly said, still colored with a touch of reckless mania. “Mom’s gonna go grab life by the marble dick and pray this gift horse doesn’t have rotten teeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I don't think camera-mounted photo flashes make that noise anymore but we're going to pretend they do
> 
> Corkie is a real actual legit dog that I know, I love him so much with his big dumb ears and black eyes, like a doll's eyes,, 
> 
> Round of applause for the inventive app name alright go team  
>   
> I chose to place Bev in Manchester, Maryland because it sounds like she's in the English countryside (she's the Iris of this very loose crossover/AU) but she's still only 40 minutes outside of Baltimore so it worked out beautifully  
> 


	2. Italian Meringue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh lawd they comin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I predicted, I'm running on a backlog! I'll be dumping chapters as I complete them over the next couple of days and I'm hoping to catch up to the calendar soon (because Solstice and Christmas are going to be fun for two very different reasons). Thanks to those who have read, commented, kudos'd and bookmarked already!

It was snowing when Hannibal emerged from the airport terminal and set foot on the salted streets of Baltimore. He looked down at the crunch beneath his soles and for the first time, perhaps, in his life regretted the fact that all of the shoes he owned were patented Italian leather.

He waved down a cab, stepping back when the tires slurped through the slush and oozed it up over the curb. His frown deepened and he skipped over the mess before it reached his shoes.

The back of the cab was stifling and tangy with the acidic bite of something like chlorine. The cabbie twisted in his seat to raise prompting eyebrows.

“Destination?”

“Manchester.” Hannibal said, careful not to breathe through his nose.

“You wanna be more specific or are we just winging it?”

Hannibal dug around in the pocket of his coat until he found the address, scrawled on a scrap of paper. He passed it forward. The cabbie looked down his nose at it and raised his eyebrows. 

“Nice handwriting.”

“Can you read it?”

“Yeah I can read it fiiine.” The cabbie pulled his GPS forward by the mounted arm. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Out of state.”

“You can just tell me to fuck off, I get it all the time.” The cabbie said, tapping in the address.

“Italy.”

“Oh wow. Wouldn’t have pegged it.” The cabbie said, mild. He crumpled the address in his fist and shifted the car into drive. He did a shoulder check, turn signal tapping like an impatient foot, and waited for a van to pass through the slush on their left. He glanced back at Hannibal in the rear-view mirror. 

“Buckle up, biscotti. You like Christmas music?”

A headache began to pound behind Hannibal’s eyes. The bitter, tangy heat of the cab’s interior was oppressive. He cracked the window and sat back, tuning out the bells jingling from the radio while the taxi pulled into traffic.

  


* * *

  


“Hey. Mr. Italy.”

Hannibal didn’t respond. 

“Buddy.” 

In the answering silence the cabbie locked and unlocked the car doors, hoping the mechanism was close enough to Hannibal’s head to wake him. It didn’t.

He tapped the horn, an abrupt honk that startled the birds from the branches above, dumping tiny clods of snow onto the hood of the car. Hannibal sat up. The cabbie’s mouth pinched up at the corner and he gestured out the window with a loose roll of his wrist.

“This is where I leave you.”

Hannibal drew a hand down his face, muzzy, and peered out of the window. 

Spindly trunks stretched up above them, branches embracing over the mouth of a narrow road. He was staring down a tree-lined tunnel that stretched on for ages above a snow-packed country lane. That wasn’t right. 

“Where is the cottage?"

The cabbie turned the GPS towards him, manipulating it on its metal arm. He pointed to the highlighted road. “It’s just down this lane, here. See? You’ll have to walk it." He gestured out Hannibal's window. "If I go down there in my cab I can’t turn around and let me tell you, that’s gonna rack up one hell of a fare.” He said, like a punchline. Hannibal didn’t laugh. He wasn’t at all equipped to be trekking down unknown miles of winter road ankle-deep in gravel-studded snow. He had no boots and he still had a pronounced limp from the _stab wound_ in his thigh. The lane leered back at him, stretching longer and longer into the distance. He turned back to the cabbie.

“Your car does, in fact, reverse.”

“Hah. Front wheel drive isn’t front wheel drive when you put it in reverse.”

Hannibal fixed him with an unblinking stare. The cabbie's grin melted away the longer it went on. 

With a dangerous calm, Hannibal thumbed open his wallet and passed some cash forward. He gathered up his suitcase and stepped out into the open air, pulling it deep into his lungs, gripping tight to the tattered threads of his patience. The bitter cold burned in his nose and throat, swirling in his lungs, and he expelled the breath in a vaporous cloud that took with it the sting of chlorine and the sour hint of sweat. 

The window rolled down behind him.

“Hey, biscotti, when you need a lift back to the airport, call me. I can meet you right back here.” A hand poked out into the chilly air. Hannibal took the proffered card and frowned down at the name before he tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. 

“Much obliged, Matthew.”

The card would make a decent fire starter when he reached the cottage.

_If_ he reached the cottage.

The taxi tooted its horn as it pulled away and Hannibal stepped under the threadbare canopy of the tunneling trees.

  


* * *

  


It could have been worse, but not by much. 

The lane went on and on, winding aimlessly through the countryside, bleak under the crunch of sedimentary snow. The laces of his shoes came undone in the wet snow and Hannibal was forced to double-knot them with numb fingers. His hands were cold enough that he missed the fact his thumb had split until the little cut was leaving red spots in the snow. He pulled a tissue from the travel packet in his coat pocket and wrapped it around the injury, stuffing his damp hands back into his gloves. 

His shoes kept sliding on the snow pack and he quickly learned that the powdery shoulder allowed for faster, safer movement, but the powder clung to the cuffs of his woolen pants and melted on his socks until his ankles were wet and freezing. He tried switching his suitcase between arms to avoid excessive shoulder strain but the method fell to ruin when the wrapped raw bed of his missing nail began throbbing painfully every time his left hand handled the bag. It felt like it might be bleeding again but he didn't remove his glove to check. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, the collar of his coat pulled up around his neck, snuffling every so often in the cold as his nose ran. His breath chugged out in little vapor clouds behind him, a tiny steam engine limping down the lane. 

His ears, cheeks and nose were bright red by the time he stood facing the cottage gate. The facade was every bit as quaint as the photographs had suggested and despite the last half hour of unwarranted struggle, Hannibal felt his knot of contempt ease. He pushed at the gate. 

It creaked and didn't budge. 

His mouth stretched into a sour smile and he rammed his hip against the gate, shattering the ice that gummed the latch shut. The hinges squeaked and he dragged his wounded figure, and his luggage, up to the cottage door. 

He pulled the glove of his good hand off with his teeth and rooted around in the letterbox, Beverly’s spare key dancing to avoid his frozen fingers before he managed to pin it and drag it out. 

He stood for a minute with his forehead pressed to the cold green paint of the front door. There was still an unfamiliar dog waiting for him on the other side. Nothing else could _possibly_ go wrong.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. 

  


* * *

  


Beverly stepped into the airport’s train station with heavier bags under her eyes than she had slung over her shoulder.

The flight in to Rome would have been a peaceful one were it not for the unfortunate situation of a discontented two-year-old in the seat in front of her. Beverly had managed maybe an hour or so of dozing through the entire nine-hour, red-eye flight. The kid was lucky she was so cute. 

Beverly looked up at the station clock. There were only two trains a day direct from the International airport in Rome — where she was — to the Santa Maria Novella station in Florence — where she needed to go — and she had eight minutes to find hers. It wasn't exactly a crisis of choice. There were only two tracks stretching out of the little airport station and the 15:08 to Florence was waiting patiently on the left-hand side. 

The seats were molded plastic and moderately uncomfortable. Bev slid lower and dug her phone from her pocket, eyelids heavy. She dialed a number and rolled her eyes when it dropped her directly into voicemail. She left a short message, slid her phone back into the pocket of her coat, and crossed her arms over her chest. 

She was conked out before the doors had even closed. 

  


* * *

  


The Santa Maria Novella station spat her into Florence, overcast and cold yet still bustling with activity. Whistles and shouting echoed from the taxi station to her right and Beverly stumbled out of the way when a harried-looking woman dashed past, phone pressed to one ear while she ran full-tilt, _in heels_ , towards the waiting cabs. The car exhaust was suffocating. Bev eyed the noise and bustle with tired reluctance; she really didn't feel like bundling into one of those cabs. 

She wheeled herself and her suitcase back into the train station, pulling up her maps app. She'd pinned Dr. Lecter's address before she left and despite frequent turns through zig-zagging streets, the little red marker was blessedly close. She extended the handle of her rolling suitcase and began the journey. 

  


* * *

  


In retrospect, she probably should have taken a cab. 

The cobblestones _looked_ great, but they were absolute murder on the feet. The wheels of her suitcase rattled loud over the roads and sidewalks, occasionally catching on missing chunks or uneven lays or, once, dragging a jagged stone several feet which almost took a wheel out on her luggage. If that wasn't enough to complain about, it had rained earlier in the day and the cobbles were still wet, glistening in the orange of the streetlamps starting to come on all over the city. The shine was beautiful, but sometimes, she found out, deceptive: she entirely missed an ankle-deep puddle until she was standing in it. She shook the freezing water from her shoe like a bedraggled cat, sighed, and squished on. 

The entrance to Dr. Lecter’s complex was barred by stone walls and a great big gate. Beyond it, she could see the little courtyard full of lemon trees and the familiar shape of the fountain maiden standing silent in the dusky gloom. It was almost eerie, the stillness of the dormant courtyard, but Bev wrote off her goosebumps as a symptom of her wet and freezing left foot. 

She typed six numbers into the keypad beside the gate, relieved when it buzzed and clicked open. Dr. Lecter’s last message to her had also recommended she take the courtyard’s right-hand staircase, as his address was the first one at the top. 

She squished her way up the wide stone steps, carrying her suitcase like a small child, hugged tight to her body. Despite the short climb she was breathing heavily by the time she reached the top. She glanced back at the trail of soggy left-footprints up one side of the stairs, then slid her dry shoe against the ground. It shushed over a thin layer of dust. Wet plus dust meant mud that she wasn't about to track into Dr. Lecter's Italian Museumhouse. Let’s start off on the right foot here, pun possibly intended, she’d decide when she wasn’t so foggy and tired. 

A key had been left for her under the doormat, of all the obvious places. The apartment was quiet and still beyond the doorway, the curtains drawn on the dusk, no lights on to greet her. Thankfully it smelled more like a home than a museum, in a clean and slightly masculine way. She swung the door wide, toed off her shoes, removed her left sock for good measure, and groped the interior wall until she located a light switch. 

The tile floor was smooth and cold against her bare foot. She stared around the front room as she bullied her suitcase over the threshold and closed the door on Florence outside. 

Just like the pictures, the colors of the apartment were rich and warm, mahoganies and cherrywoods and maroon leather, balanced by the creamy floor and golden frames on paintings hung about the room. The space beyond the front room seemed of almost ballroom proportions, and she could see expensive tables, velvety lounges, vases, a suit of armor, and a harpsichord by the subtle light of the lamps. She dragged her suitcase along for moral support as she set off to familiarize herself with the place. 

In the kitchen she found a wicker basket staged on the granite countertop, swollen with goods, her name beautifully lettered onto a folded card propped in front of it. She flipped the card open to find the wifi passcode in the same decorative handwriting. In the basket, a bottle of champagne wore a Firenze pass around its neck. An Italian phrasebook hid a box of very expensive-looking confections. A pocket guide to Italy had several pages bookmarked with post-it tabs, and Beverly curiously opened it to find the “Florence”, “Florence Connections”, and “Practicalities” sections marked. Behind the guide sat two adaptor plugs for US-to-European sockets and Beverly realized, in a short-lived flash of panic supplanted by relief, that she had completely neglected to purchase any herself. 

“Thank _you_ , Dr. Lecter.”

She checked her phone for any texts or returned calls but the screen only offered her the time. Rolling her eyes, she spent a minute composing a text. When she sent it, she waited a minute, but the “Delivered” banner completely failed to pop up. She tried not to worry about it and grabbed an adaptor to plug in her phone once she found the bedroom. 

She walked her suitcase aimlessly through the apartment like a lost tourist. It was the ballroom and two hallways later when she finally located the master bedroom, a much smaller affair compared to the rest of the apartment. The bed was made up with a very thick comforter and Beverly flopped down onto the end of it with a long sigh, staring vaguely around the room with her cheek smooshed against the bed. 

Five minutes later, her suitcase tipped over with a _clack_ , but Beverly was too asleep to notice. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Matthew Brown, Will's season-two murder-by-proxy, makes a brief cameo in a taxi that smells like a swimming pool WINK  
>   
> Now that we've dropped our characters into place, the fun can begin...


	3. Graham Crackers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two important players join the party and we see the beginnings of a pairing rarely, if _ever_ , seen before (#Kimmond)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to see my little boy... HERE HE COMES

It was two a.m. and Hannibal wasn’t sleeping.

The modest cottage bedroom had hefty, dark wooden beams that divided the ceiling into broad strips of textured plaster. Hannibal lay on the bed with his feet pressed to the balusters of the metal footboard, conjuring shapes from the abstract shadows above him. Downstairs, the mantle clock in the living room chimed twice; bright, fulsome peals that floated up the staircase and through the open bedroom door. 

The wind gusted against the windows outside, icy snow pellets making tiny crackling noises as they glanced off the glass.

Hannibal got out of bed.

It was snowing in great billowing curtains: huge, snapping blankets of white that reflected the light of the street lamps and lit the town in a second twilight. Hannibal stood at the bedroom window and watched the violent dance of the flakes in the wind, his head buzzing with jet lagged exhaustion. He held his left hand up and considered the fresh wrap protecting his missing nail, rotated his wrist and checked the split side of his thumb. It had scabbed over nicely after he had cleaned it and let it breathe. His leg sent a grumpy reminder of the strenuous afternoon in the form of a shooting pain and he lifted his weight off of it, rubbing absently near the puncture site. 

A memory of crystalline decanters full of amber liquids in the kitchen downstairs floated to the forefront of his mind. He slipped on his robe. 

Beverly’s little wire-haired terrier raised his head when he heard Hannibal’s slippered feet on the stairs. He watched from the sofa as Hannibal disappeared from one doorway and appeared in another, just a reflection in the glass of the back door. The little dog hopped down to investigate further in case Hannibal in the kitchen meant treats. 

Hannibal granted him a cursory glance when the dog clicked into the kitchen. He pulled the brandy down from the cabinet beside the fridge, searching through the cabinets and finally just pouring himself a modest finger in a stemless bulb glass that read “Wine Mom” in curving brush letters on the side.

By the dull light that filtered in through the sheer curtains over the sink, Hannibal stood and considered the various bits and scraps stuck to the door of Beverly’s fridge. There was a small magnetic calendar that had the name of a vet’s office in bold letters at the top. A plastic violin held a hastily scribbled recipe for “Mom's sugar cookies” on a scrap of yellow notepad paper. There was a conversion chart for measurements and a receipt from the little grocery store in town; a colorful wrapper from a chocolate brand that probably spent more on packaging design than on the actual chocolate; and five plastic alphabet magnets that spelled out, of all words, "MOIST". 

Centered in the middle of the freezer door was the note that had been left for him. He skimmed through it again. 

  


_Hannibal:_

_Corkie’s dry food is on the bottom shelf of the pantry, he gets one scoop in the morning and one in the evening. If he doesn’t warm up to you right away just give him some of the pouch chicken and he’ll love you forever. He’s a prissy little gremlin and isn’t fond of the snow so if it storms a lot you may have to shovel a path off the back patio to get him to do his business. He has a sweater for walks, it’s by the front door with his leash. You won’t have to take him out a whole lot, only if he starts to get devious. That’s the cabin fever._

_And hey, thanks for the vacation, you have no idea how much I needed it right now. Call or text anytime you need me._

  


Corkie’s claws clicked against the linoleum as he came to sit by Hannibal’s side, gazing up at him with his black marble eyes. Hannibal looked down at him, feeling a persistent chill even through his robe. It got quite cold in the drafty old cottage when the fire wasn’t going. He twined his arms over his chest with a shiver. 

“Go put a log on the fire.” He told the dog.

Both of their attention snapped towards the front door when a loud banging struck up on the other side. 

“ _Beverly_!” A muffled voice yelled.

Corkie gave two sharp yaps and skittered off down the hall, his collar jangling. Hannibal peered into the foyer after him. 

The frosted window to the left of the front door showed the vague blob of a man hunched on the front stoop, his back to the blowing snow. He knocked again, urgent, though it was quieter this time. Corkie barked again and looked back at Hannibal, his tail wagging so hard his entire rear end was swaying.

“C’mon Bev please I really have to pee.” The man on the stoop said, his voice resonating oddly through the door. 

Hannibal took the time to consider. It was 2AM, it was blizzarding and this man had shown up here under the assumption that (1) Beverly was still home and (2) she habitually opened doors at this hour for full bladders. The familiarity suggested someone close to her, but the fact that he was unaware of her recent departure suggested a break in that trend as of late. Ex-partner? Alienated friend? Estranged relative?

Outside, the man leaned forward, his black knit cap a dark shape pressed against the frosted glass. Hannibal could see a better suggestion of his face but it was angled away from the window. A great cloud of breath fogged the glass further as the man released a weary sigh.

“Look I know it’s late and I know you want me to stop doing this but it’s too damn late I’ve already done it. I'd just piss in the bushes if I wasn’t already freezing my balls off out here.” He thumped his head against the window. “Bev. Your compassion. Where is it. Please.”

If Hannibal opened the door, the man would likely have a conniption, might even try to attack him. At the very least there would be shouting and confusion that Hannibal, tired and sore as he was, could live without. The man would eventually give up and retreat, he'd just have to wait him out. He turned back to the kitchen. 

In the foyer, Corkie disagreed and started barking.

“That’s right, Corkie, talk some sense into your mom.” Said the man outside.

Hannibal stared hard at the dog but Corkie would not be deterred. Bouncing on front paws, he kept on yapping and yapping until Hannibal shut his eyes, clenched his jaw hard and then strode to the door and flung it open.

Snow swirled into the front foyer. The man, huddled close to the house, took a step forward.

“Thanks Bev I owe y—“ 

The snow cleared. He drew up short so abruptly he almost toppled backwards. For a second, between heartbeats, he and Hannibal just stared at each other.

“Hello.” Hannibal said.

“Who the fuck are _you_? Where’s Beverly?” Without waiting for an answer the man shoved forward, crowding into the house. The sharp smell of alcohol drifted past with him. Hannibal didn’t try to resist him, just let him stumble past to check the dark and empty living room, the dark and empty kitchen. 

“Beverly? _Beverly_! Who the hell is this at 2 AM?” 

Corkie followed the man like an orbiting electron, hopping excitedly around his legs, waiting to be paid some attention. Hannibal swung the front door shut just as the stranger rounded on him again. Hannibal extended a polite hand.

“Hannibal Lecter. Beverly’s house exchange.” 

“She deleted that.”

“Did she.”

“Where is she?”

“If she didn’t tell you herself, perhaps that is information best kept private.”

The man spluttered, affronted. “Listen, _asshole_ , you'll tell me where the _fuck_ my sister is or I’ll have the police banging on the door next.”

Not one hair was out of place as Hannibal stood calm in the face of the stranger’s bluster.

“Florence.”

“ _Italy_?”

“Yes.”

The man stared at Hannibal, then snorted and headed for the stairs.

“I’m drunk but I’m not _that_ drunk. _Beverly_!” He shouted, taking the stairs two at a time while Corkie raced after him. Hannibal walked into the kitchen and slipped the note from the fridge. Corkie came running back down the stairs and met Hannibal returning to the foyer. He looked up. 

The stranger was on the landing, his arms spread, hands on the walls. Hannibal held up the note and the man descended to take it, though he was considerably less aggressive in his manner. Hannibal waited patiently while he skimmed through it. He slumped against the wall.

“Shit.” 

“If your sister did not deign to share her travel plans with you—“

Hannibal startled when the stranger’s hand smacked against his chest, pressing a mobile phone to the front of his sweater. He took it, looking down to a glass screen that was a mess of jagged cracks. He pressed the home button. The screen showed him the bottom corner of a photographic wallpaper, what looked like snow and the fluffy tail of a dog, but the image was largely lost to smudgy, uneven grey.

“Fell out of my pocket when I was getting in the car." Said the stranger. "Landed on a corner, sat in the slush. A bit difficult to receive information, then, that your sister is up and leaving the country, out of the goddamn blue, the week before Christmas, _isn’t it_.”

Hannibal handed the phone back, chastened. “I apologize for my assumptions. Beverly did not warn me about any potential visitors.”

The man pulled his hand over his mouth, skin scratching against scruff. “Yeah, well… She was optimistic this wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” 

Hannibal remained neutral though his eyes were keen on the stranger's face.

“I assume you know where the washroom is.” He said. 

The stranger muttered something that sounded like “thanks” and pushed off the wall, disappearing into the tiny room under the stairs. Hannibal returned to the kitchen and picked up his abandoned brandy, swirling it absently in the glass as he listened to the sounds of another body in the house. He lifted his eyes to the kitchen window when the wind howled and dashed the snow against it.

The stranger came out of the bathroom with water still beaded on his hands. 

“Look I’ll go I didn’t—” He was saying, then realized Hannibal was no longer standing in the hall. He peered into the kitchen and spotted him at the sink instead, washing a glass. 

“I’m going. Sorry. Have a nicer night, Mr, um, whatever it was.”

“Your sister lets you stay here.” Hannibal said, setting the glass in the dish drainer. The man stood silently floundering long enough that Hannibal turned around.

“The pillow and quilt in the armoire.” He explained.

“I, uh— yeah. The pub is just down the lane from here.” The stranger said, gesturing blindly in a vague direction. “I’m out further. She doesn’t usually like the idea of me stumbling home in the dark.” 

“Usually?”

“She’s strategic in her permissions. Trying to break the-- uh, pattern of reliance."

Hannibal nodded, folding the dish towel and setting it on the counter. “I could call you a cab. I certainly don’t want to force you back out into this weather.”

The man laughed and rubbed at one eye. He looked three blinks away from sleep. “No. They wouldn’t thank you for summoning them _all_ the way out to Manchester at… at stupid o’clock just to ferry a sad drunk a couple of blocks in the snow. I’ll just walk it. It's what I deserve.” 

Hannibal ran a quick and critical eye over the stranger. There was a charcoal scarf bunched warm under the trimmed scruff of his square jaw, framed by the popped collar of his field jacket, zipped up as far as it would go. His black knit hat crushed the limp ends of short, dark curls to the back of his neck. No gloves; his bare fingers hung curled at his sides. It was all far too little for the frigid winds and blowing snow. Hannibal thought about allowing him to leave and watching him disappear, stumbling on the uneven snowfall, into the whipping curtains of white. The chances were good that he’d make it home without incident. 

But if he didn’t. 

The stranger was already in the foyer, one lethargic hand on the doorknob.

“Wait.” Hannibal called, from the kitchen doorway. The man, swaying slightly, looked back at him. 

“Take the sofa.”

He waved at the idea like it was a disruptive fly. “No no. You’re not obligated. I’ve been rude, I’m intruding, I should go.“ He opened the door, recoiling as bitter wind and snow swirled in his face. Hannibal stepped forward.

“Please, Mr...?”

He closed the door down to a crack. “Graham.”

“Mr. Graham. Your sister entrusted me with her home, and everything that comes with it. That, as circumstances have permitted, now includes you. You are safer here until the weather clears.” 

Graham stood with his hand on the door, gears visibly turning behind tired eyes. Finally he pressed the door shut with a clunk. 

“Yeah, alright. Thanks.” 

The clock on the mantle gave a clear ‘ping’ to mark the half hour as Graham followed Hannibal into the sitting room, peeling his hat off to free a crush of messy curls. He scratched a hand through his hair and sat down on the end of the sofa, Corkie running in from the hallway to launch himself at Graham’s lap. 

“Hey, Corks.” He mumbled, settling back. He tugged his scarf looser but didn’t appear to have the energy to unwind it. When Hannibal turned around with pillow and quilt in hand, it was to find Graham already nodding off, his head draped over the back of the sofa and Corkie settling in next to his legs. Hannibal set the folded quilt and pillow on the coffee table. 

“I’ll move.” Graham murmured, but made no motion to do so. He looked like a puppet with cut strings, limp and heavy, sunk into the cushions. Hannibal moved all of the throw pillows to the floor and then touched Graham’s hand. His skin was still cold, knuckles dry from the bitter wind.

“Up.” Hannibal said.

Graham accepted the proffered help, clasping hands and groaning when Hannibal pried him off of the couch and into an upright position. Corkie jumped down and stood by to watch Hannibal guide Graham to sit on the hearth, then turn back and snap the quilt open. 

“I can do that.” Graham mumbled, lifting himself from the brick and only wobbling a little. 

“I can do it much faster. Put a log on the fire, I’ll light it before I go upstairs.”

Hannibal tucked, folded and fluffed with quick precision. Graham barely had the log into the fireplace before Hannibal was next to him, striking a match, the temporary bed set up neatly behind them. Graham shuffled over and dropped onto it, flopping over sideways, sighing when his cheek met the cool cotton of the pillowcase. He tried with no real effort to toe off his boots until he felt something touch his leg. He stopped moving, allowed Hannibal to loosen the laces and slide his boots off, setting them beside the coffee table. He burrowed his feet under the quilt and felt it tug up and over his body, shivered when it reached his shoulder and tucked up under his chin. A warm hand rested on his shoulder and it felt familiar, comfortable. 

“Goodnight.” He heard, from the foggy realm of half-sleep.

“Mmm. G’night.” 

It wasn't meant to happen. He was tired, he was so tired and drunk and something in the back of his brain remembered this, feeling like this, feeling cared for and looked after even while he struggled with self-loathing for his own weaknesses, his own bad decisions. Procedural memory grabbed the wheel. Graham leaned up and kissed the nearest pair of lips goodnight. 

The lips didn’t kiss back. They were completely still: soft but motionless, and not the shape he was expecting. Graham registered something was amiss and cracked his eyes open. 

“Uh.” He said, articulate. 

His eyes flicked down to Hannibal’s lips. They were still very close. An apology tumbled around in Graham’s cloudy brain, trying to find its way into the open while he watched Hannibal's dark eyes assessing him, his featherweight eyelashes lifting and falling like the lazy wings of a sunning butterfly. 

He was gripping Hannibal’s arm but he didn’t remember doing it. 

“Sorry.” 

Hannibal’s fringe brushed Graham’s forehead as he pulled away.

“Sleep now.” He said. 

Graham sagged back against his pillow and watched Hannibal disappear up the staircase, the tail of his robe swishing around the corner and out of sight. He knew he should be feeling something outside of tired, but he was fading too fast to get a handle on it. He'd let the mortification set in come morning. 

  


* * *

  


The sun was leaking behind the cracks of the bedroom curtains when Beverly snapped awake, still fully clothed and sprawled on the end of the bed. She sat up and stared around herself in alarm, then spotted her toppled suitcase and noticed her missing sock and remembered the long and, quite likely, certifiably insane last-minute journey across the Atlantic two weeks before Christmas. 

She cast around for her phone and finally found it fallen onto the quilted bench at the foot of the bed. The screen gave her a low battery warning and nothing else.

“God damn it, Will, you _really_ know how to put a mind at ease.”

She plugged it in with a little more force than was perhaps entirely necessary and dug around her suitcase for a complete pair of socks. She was in the process of trying to finger-comb her hair free of rats and tangles when the doorbell rang. It hadn’t even occurred to her that a place like this would have something as commonplace as a doorbell. 

She tiptoed out into the main rooms, wondering who or what the hell could be on the other side of that door. Had she dropped something on the staircase? Had she actually left muddy footprints up the left side of the stairs and the landlord was here to make her scrub it? Was it Dr. Lecter back with a change of heart? Was it rude to pretend no one was home when there were clearly lights on in the front room?

Beverly couldn’t see much through the spy hole, it was ever so slightly too high for her without heels. She opened the front door a crack and peered through. 

A man stood on the front stoop glancing back down the staircase, his arms hidden behind the open sides of his wool coat, an understated plaid scarf looped loose around his neck. Bev didn’t see any torches, pitchforks or imminent handcuffs so she let the door open a tiny bit further.

“Uh, _buongiorno_?” She said. The man looked up, startled.

“Oh, _buongiorno bellissima_. I need to speak with Doctor Lecter, please?” 

Distinctly _not_ Italian. What was Lecter doing with a six-foot-tall English masterpiece showing up on his doorstep this early in the morning? 

Her eye caught when his coat shifted and revealed that he held a bottle of wine in one gloved hand. 

_Interesting_.

“He’s… not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“New Year’s.”

There was a pause, but he recovered beautifully. The list of things he _couldn’t_ do beautifully, Beverly suspected, was likely short. 

“Ah. No matter. I’ll just ring him.”

Bev blew her hair out of her eyes and canted a hip against the doorframe. “I wouldn’t. It’s 2 AM in Maryland.”

This appeared to unmoor him. He gave a little chuckle and shifted on his feet, his scarf swaying over the open front of his wool coat.

“There’s a story here I haven’t been told, isn’t there?”

“You and me both.”

“Ah, of course. Anthony Dimmond.” He said, extending a hand. She shook it, admiring the way his subtle smile danced around his eyes.

“Beverly.” She said. “Katz.” She added. “Are you, ah… a patient of his?”

“Oh, no, no.” Dimmond said, laughing. “Good friend. I was just stopping by to see how he’s faring, after all the, _excitement_ of last week.”

Beverly’s eyebrows shot skyward. She didn’t want to be a busybody, but… 

“Do you want to come in?”

  



	4. S'mores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers, regrets, doorbells and the world's most dramatic psychiatrist.

Will woke to the the jingle of Corkie’s collar and the sharp, bracing smell of coffee. He lay still for a while, unwilling to open his eyes, feeling Corkie circle and then flop back down on the quilt at his feet. The light of the morning filtered through the thin skin of his eyelids in a vibrant orange. He rolled over and buried his face against the back of the sofa. 

Memories floated around just out of reach, blurry and disjointed. The pub. The snow. Bev’s house.

_Not Bev._

Will sat up too quickly. His head pounded and spun like a bowling ball gunning for a strike. Clutching his skull, he disentangled himself from the quilt and then had to spend a minute sitting quiet with his head in his hands. 

More memories drifted in, snippets and tidbits. The foreigner with the sharp face, sinister in its unfamiliarity in his sister's cottage. Corkie, running circles around his legs. He remembered, he’d been leaving, he‘d been resigned to the dangerous trog home. The door open, snow whipping in his face.

A silhouette from the dark kitchen. The foreigner unwilling to let him venture back out into the storm. The sofa made up. 

A crackling fire, comfort and security, the familiar touch of lips. 

_Un_ familiar touch of lips.

Will pushed his hands into his hair and curled forward, sighing. Corkie jumped down from the sofa and left him there. Will didn't blame him. He'd like to leave him there, too. 

The sheets and quilt were all twisted and half-fallen off of the end of the sofa. Will stood carefully, minding his throbbing head, then gathered and folded everything back into a neat bundle and returned it to the armoire. He pressed his forehead against the faux-aged ivory paint of the armoire door and rubbed at his gritty eyes. 

His field jacket was hanging limp on the pegs behind the front door. He made his creaky way over to it and patted through the pockets until he'd located his glasses. In the slightly warped mirror next to the stairs, he checked that his hair wasn’t abysmal in its sleepy disarray, accepted that dark circles under bloodshot eyes was a look he’d be sporting all day, and tried to fix the twist of his rumpled collar. He looked a wreck. 

Maybe pity would soften his sentence.

  


The foreigner was in the kitchen, slowly depressing the plunger on a French press coffee maker. In daylight, at least, he didn’t look as ominous as he had by firelight, all dark hollows that painted him a skull, like a handsome and benevolent Death appeared in his sister's house. 

Or maybe that had been the alcohol. 

Will leaned in the doorway and the man looked up through the soft fringe fallen across his forehead. Will couldn’t remember his name but he could remember the texture of his lips, which was unhelpful.

“Good morning.” The man told him. Will tried for a smile but it was short-lived and strained, and he couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah. Listen, um… There is no excuse for the way I behaved last night. I was disruptive, disrespectful, and uh…” He sighed, rubbing his face. “…Inappropriate. For what it’s worth, I apologize. Mr…?”

“Lecter.”

“Mr. Lecter.”

“Please, call me Hannibal.” Hannibal said, turning to the cabinets above the sink and pulling down two mugs. He didn’t appear bothered in the least. Will said as much.

“Feelings of neglect and abandonment will often push the afflicted into seeking comfort.” Hannibal said. “You felt abandoned by your sister.”

Will laughed, nervous. “God, you sound like a psychiatrist.”

Hannibal turned raised eyebrows on him. Will's smile faded. 

“You _are_ a psychiatrist." He said. "Of course you are.” 

“I am a psychiatrist… on holiday.” Hannibal amended, pouring the steaming coffee. “I am very grateful to your sister for providing me this cozy haven in which to convalesce.” He held a mug out to Will, who accepted it, his attention snagging on the thick wrap around the end of Hannibal’s index finger.

“Uh… Convalesce?”

“Psychiatric work isn’t always plush chairs and postulations.” Hannibal said, sitting down at the rickety kitchen table. “I… survived a violent patient. I thought it would be beneficial to get away from it all while I healed.”

Will swallowed past the sour, guilty flavor at the back of his tongue. 

“Instead you got another headcase on your doorstep at two in the morning.” He said. His stomach felt tight. He looked down at the dark coffee in his hand and then set the mug aside. “Is there a way I can repay you for your leniency or should I just go away and never return?”

Hannibal’s thumb stroked the rim of his mug. Will watched the motion, dull. It was easier than meeting his eyes. 

“I... have an appointment in Baltimore this afternoon, but no confirmed mode of transportation. I planned to call a cab.” Hannibal said. 

“I can drive you.” Will said. “I’m headed that way anyway, I need a new phone. When’s your appointment?“

“Two.”

Will nodded, rapping his knuckles on the wall beside him. 

“I’ll buy you lunch on the way down, too."

Hannibal got up and tailed Will into the front foyer. 

“You won’t stay for breakfast?” He said. 

“Dogs at home.” Will said, shrugging on his coat. “I have to go let them out before they decide the floor is good enough. Anyway, I’ve done enough damage to your vacation. I’ll be back at noon and do more then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

Will turned and met his eyes, tugging his black knit cap down around his ears. 

“It’s just Will.” He granted. 

Hannibal stood in the doorway, his coffee gently steaming in the bitter crisp of the morning air, an echo to the vaporous clouds of breath tracing Will’s path towards the thigh-high snowdrift built up in front of the gate. Will kicked easily through it, stamped his pants clear of snow in the street and continued on his way. Hannibal watched until all he could see was the top of Will’s hat disappearing past the garden wall. He hid a smile behind a sip of coffee and let the door shut on the sharp light of the sunny winter morning.

  


* * *

  


Beverly shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, hunching her shoulders against the chill as she and her new acquaintance Anthony ‘Charming’ Dimmond struck out onto the streets of the city. After the doorstep incident he had regaled her with the morbid story of Dr. Lecter’s “stressful” lead-up to the holidays and Beverly had listened, suitably horrified, while equally distracted by the vision of the man telling her the tale. She didn’t know him, but she hated the idea of his exit leaving her there alone again. He was like human Xanax, and Beverly knew that should probably concern her more than it did, but he was a good friend of her temporary landlord and house sitter so she couldn’t find it in her heart distrust him. Then, when Dimmond learned that it was her first real day in the city, he offered to act as something of a guide if she didn’t mind the company. 

She certainly did not.

“How long have you lived in Florence?” Bev said, walking in stride with Dimmond on the narrow, uneven sidewalk. They were approaching the open expanse of a piazza, a wide cobbled square interrupted only by a modest fountain and a bronze statue of a man astride a horse. A few small cars and scooters were parked at the outskirts of the piazza, and at the far end was a wider street than the one they were leaving behind, lined with shops and collecting the few meandering tourists here off-season. They were easy to spot. It was threatening drizzle; the plastic ponchos or red, white and green umbrellas were a dead giveaway. 

“I’m only here for a few months. Studying.” Dimmond said. They waited for a bus to rumble past on the cobbles before crossing into the piazza. Surrounding the square on three sides was a series of wide, shallow steps that terminated in smooth, mosaic-tiled porticos, featuring pillars that pushed the roofs skyward. Bev watched a small child run towards a modest collection of pigeons, sending them flying in a frantic flapping of wings. 

“How did you meet Dr. Lecter?” Bev continued, as they kept on towards the far street. She could now see a hint of the Duomo’s cupola past the terra cotta rooftops. 

“Sat next to each other at a lecture at the Uffizi. Unrivaled shite, the lot of it, and it seemed we were the only two who noticed.”

Bev nodded. "That tracks."

“We got on well. It turned out Lecter was quite the purveyor of the arts.”

Bev snorted. “Yeah. Does he actually _play_ that harpsichord, or is it just another statement piece?"

"Oh he does. Mozart _weeps_ to see the way his fingers dance. “

Beverly threw her head back in a surprised laugh, causing two nearby pigeons to scatter. 

“Draws, paints, writes, and cooks, too. He’s quite the Renaissance man.“ Dimmond said, and then they were in the shop-lined street, heading towards the looming landmark of the Duomo. Bev peeked up at Dimmond’s face, wistful as he considered the cupola. He caught her glance.

“I hope the weather breaks, one of these mornings. She really is resplendent in the rising sun.”

Bev smirked at him. “You love it here.”

Dimmond smiled. “You’ll see.”

* * *

  


Will held out his hand and the shop clerk set the new phone on his palm. 

“Good as new.” The clerk said, busying himself at the cash register. Will rotated the device, admiring the scratchless finish, the lint-free jacks and the pristine screen. 

“It’s got your same SIM card so everything should be there. If you find anything missing give us a call.”

“Thanks.” Will tossed a protective phone case onto the counter. “Go ahead and add this in, too.”

The clerk chuckled. “Not in a hurry to come back, huh?”

“Don’t take it personal.”

Will stepped out onto the sidewalk still snapping the casing onto his new phone. Squinting in the sunlight, he wandered into the parking lot while he pulled up his voicemail. 

  


_Welcome. Please enter your passcode._

  


Will reached the Volvo and leaned against the back hatch, typing in his four-digit pin. In the passenger’s seat, Hannibal watched the reflection of Will’s back against the glass. The keys were in the ignition so hot air still blew gentle from the vents. Outside, Will sniffed in the cold and shoved one hand under his arm to keep it warm.

  


_You have — two — new messages._

_First message._

  


_Will. Listen. You’re never gonna believe this. Fucking Zellar destroyed my fucking life last night at the holiday party and I was up late wallowing in booze and self-pity and wanting to just fucking disappear and guess what? Some rich Italian psychiatrist popped up on that HouseSwap thing I’d totally fucking forgotten about, right, and said he wanted my cottage for the holidays and would I like to stay at his fucking MUSEUM in Italy in exchange and Will I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m in the airport right now and I’m going to Florence for two weeks because I’m at the end of my fucking rope and fed up enough to do something this— STUPID, god, this is probably so stupid but I’m doing it. I’m doing it. Anyway so I won’t be home for the holidays, Will, I’m really sorry about the short notice but I’ll bring back some Italian shit and we’ll do something big after the New Year, okay? And I know it's a lot to ask, considering, but maybe don’t pull one of your drunken late-night sofa-begging stunts this weekend because I don’t think Dr. Lecter would appreciate the intrusion on his holiday in the-middle-of-fucking-nowhere Maryland. Don’t screw me over, big bro. Love you. I’ll let you know when I land._

  


_…To save this message, pr—_

_Next message._

  


_Hey, Will. On the ground in Italy. Gotta make this quick because I'm paying international, now. I’m on my way to the Lecter Museum and then I’m probably gonna sleep for about a week. Just text me when you get this. You better be okay over there. Okay. Love you. Bye._

  


_…End of messages._

  


Will thumbed the end call button and sank his chin onto his collar with a weary sigh. He had 17 unread text messages, most of them from Beverly. She had certainly put in the effort to let him know, which made him feel a little better, but also a lot worse. He pulled up her contact info and tapped ‘call’, figuring that voice was more reassuring than text given the circumstances. It rang forever, then finally clicked into her voicemail.

“Hey, Bev. Sorry, I’m a brick. Everything’s alright here, just some phone trouble. Glad you made it safe. We’ll miss you for Christmas but you deserve the break. Have fun and stay safe. Talk soon. Love you. Bye.”

He crunched to the driver’s side and slumped back into the car. For a minute he just stared out of the front windshield, vacant. It was comfortably warm in the Volvo and he could smell wool and Hannibal’s pomade, sharp and clean like the man himself, sitting quiet beside him. Will turned his head and his attention snagged. 

Hannibal’s patented Italian leather shoes were tied with meticulous precision; regimental laces against polished black, a stark contrast to the dirty weatherproof mat beneath his feet. The white residue of road salt was starting to bleed above the line of the soles. Feeling his gaze, Hannibal glanced at him sideways.

“How long are you here for?” Will asked.

"Two weeks." 

Will nodded, shaking his watch out from under his sleeve. He turned the engine over, causing the barely-there music to cut and then return. 

“You’ll be better off with some snow boots.” He explained, twisting in his seat as he backed out of the parking space. “We’ve got time.”

  


* * *

  


“Hello, Hannibal.” 

“Dr. Du Maurier.”

Bedelia’s eyelids fluttered in her not-quite blinking way of blinking, watching over Hannibal’s shoulder as Will backed out of the driveway. 

“Called an Uber?” She said. She looked Hannibal up and down, her eyes lingering on the brand new snow boots, not even salty yet. “Picked up some… new tricks, have you?”

“Still just an old dog.” Hannibal said with the shadow of a bow, a smile touching his lips. “The brother of my landlady. We met through a series of accidents.”

“Happy accidents?”

“Accidents.”

“Hmm.” She stood aside as if the motion wasn’t her first choice of action. “Please. Come in.”

  


Hannibal trailed her like a specter through the house. 

  


“Across an entire ocean, Hannibal. Here we are again.”

“You’ve made a fresh start for yourself here.”

Bedelia sat down and crossed one knee over the other. “Attempted to. There is one _shadow_ that still lingers on my doorstep.”

Hannibal dipped his head. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I realize the conditions are less than optimal.”

“We know this to be a taxing season, even for the best of us.” She said. “The winter months bring with them the pressures of happiness and cheer. Naturally, this paradigm is not one size fits all.”

“Naturally.”

“What, _pressures_ was your patient under, when he attacked you?”

Hannibal’s thumbs tapped together in his lap. “Despite my role and experience, there will always be dark corners that I cannot reach. Apparently, there was something coiled in Franklyn’s.” He said. “It pounced.”

Bedelia’s eyes dropped to the white tape wrapped around Hannibal’s fingertip. 

“They say a beast will not bite the hand that feeds it.”

Something impish crept into the depths of Hannibal’s sharp gaze. She recognized the glint of teeth and changed the subject.

“So you’re staying in Manchester.” She said. “Is it as quaint as the name suggests?”

“Snowcapped cottages and winding roads, set back in the trees. Yes.”

Bedelia shifted her weight in the chair. “And yet, despite the idea of seclusion, you’ve made a friend.”

“Mr. Graham is simply completing an exchange of favors.”

Bedelia’s eyebrows twitched upwards a fraction. Hannibal, disappointed by her apparent assumption, switched his crossed knees.

"He was not aware of his sister's departure when he came to pay her a visit. He was understandably concerned upon finding me in her stead."

Bedelia's mouth twitched in a tiny smile. "You _are_ such a... reassuring presence." 

This didn't appear to reach Hannibal, who sat staring into the middle distance, lost in recollection. Bedelia tilted her head. 

"Hannibal. You are here to work on you. Pull that lens back into focus." 

"I find comfort in helping others."

"He is not your patient."

“No. But I want to help him."

Bedelia fixed the hem of her dress over her knees. "Why? You do not know him. He is the brother of your landlady. What draws you to him?" 

"Circumstance."

Bedelia turned her head a fraction, several shades of skeptical. "Fate?"

"Our paths crossed unintentionally, yet perhaps by some design." Hannibal said, folding his hands in his lap. "Will is haunted. He carries someone, or some _thing_ , on his back; heavy memories, dark and cold like iron." 

"Is he open to receiving help?"

"He indicated a wariness of the psychiatric profession."

"Perhaps, then, you are mistaking coincidence for fate."

"Perhaps." Hannibal agreed, with a tiny smile. “He will drop me off this evening and say goodbye, and that may be the end of it. However, if fate and circumstance have indeed seen our paths entwined... we will naturally stumble upon each other again, beyond today."

  


* * *

  


An hour later, the Volvo sat idling in the driveway of the psychiatrist’s house, patiently waiting. Leaning forward in the driver’s seat, Will’s eyes traced the decorative stone columns that stretched towards the cloudy sky around the building. It looked, he thought, like a termite mound.

Hannibal emerged from the ridiculously textured front door of the place, twisting the last button of his wool coat closed. Despite the bulk of his new snow boots, he still moved with a dancer’s grace, and Will filed his incredulous _what even_ are _you_ away to stress about later. Hannibal popped open the car door and folded into the seat next to him, and, silent, Will lifted a paper coffee cup from the cupholder to hand to him. Hannibal took it, pleasantly surprised.

“Thank you.”

Will was watching the blonde woman — the therapist that Hannibal had crossed an entire ocean just to see — watching them from the doorway again. Her expression was inscrutable: he couldn’t tell if her lingering was mere polite courtesy or if it had some emotion attached. Maybe there was something a little more than just a doctor/patient relationship between these two… uh, specimens. Not that it was even remotely his business.

“Ready?”

“Mmm.” Hannibal confirmed, simply. Will backed out of the driveway and they set off down the salt-crunchy road back to Manchester. 

  


The sun was well past set by the time they rolled to a stop in front of the cottage gate. In the grey light Hannibal turned his head to look at him.

“Thank you, Will.” He said. “Your cab services — and boot prowess — are exemplary.”

Will nodded and Hannibal popped open the passenger door. He hesitated, poised to set foot in the snow.

“You’re certain I cannot reimburse you even half the price of these boots?”

“It’s all part of the apology.” Will assured, waving it off. There was a pause in which Will could feel Hannibal’s gaze on the side of his face and he wasn’t sure he wanted to meet it. 

Hannibal got out of the car.

“Have a wonderful evening, Will.” He said.

“Yep. Happy Holidays.”

The car door shut and Will dropped his head back against the rest, blowing out a long breath.

  


Hannibal watched the tall tail lights wind off down the country lane and then ducked into the waiting warmth of the cottage. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love a classic prissy-off between Hannibal and Bedelia
> 
> For those of you not as keen on the #Kimmond Italian Adventures, you'll be thrilled to learn that I cut out an entire afternoon spent with those kiddos that involved The David and plenty of dick jokes.
> 
> For those of you saddened by this news, I plan to come back after this whole beast is finished and put it back in ;)  
> 


	5. Tagalongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Dinner~~ Lunch with a new friend.

Corkie’s little black nose twitched and quivered in the cold breeze, his giant ears perked and one paw delicately raised. His miniature fleece sweater was violently red against the colorless snow. 

Hannibal stood on the corner holding Corkie’s leash, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat and his shoulders hunched against the bitter wind as he waited on a decision. He was grateful, at least, for the rubber soles and faux-fur lining of his new snow boots. 

“In your own time, then.”

Corkie’s head turned when an abrupt barking struck up at the far end of the street. He yapped back and started pulling against his leash, trying to tug Hannibal towards the small herd of seven dogs that had just rounded the corner. Hannibal squinted against the wind. 

Will Graham was dragging along behind them. Satisfaction bloomed warm, like relief, in Hannibal's gut. _Fate and circumstance._

“Hello, stranger.” The distant man hailed, and Hannibal nodded back. They met up halfway down the snowy street, pulled together by the relentless tug of leashes. Corkie was in full wiggle as he snuffled and yipped excited greetings, tangling into the crowd of dogs. 

“Corkie.” Will said, trying to sort the leashes to avoid a woven tapestry. Corkie had already entangled himself heroically but appeared quite chipper about it, squinting up at the humans with his tongue lolling, forced up on hind legs, stuck between a white dog and a ginger dog. Will laughed. 

“You little shit.”

Hannibal bent to help disentangle Corkie and Will counted off his small mob while they sniffed at Hannibal in interest, recognizing his as the scent of the Strange Human that they’d picked up on Will yesterday. 

“Charlie, Titan, Lucy, Janice, Winston, Buster, Weegee. Gang, this is Hannibal.” He said, then burrowed his nose into the shelter of his scarf as the freezing wind rose, chattering the branches of the trees overhead. Hannibal turned his face away from the bitter, dry bluster and Will chuckled.

“Your nose is beet red. How long have you been out?" 

"My charge has yet to find a suitable location to... discharge, we'll say." 

Will laughed. "I haven't lost all feeling in my extremities so _our_ walk is still young. Headed this way?" 

They looked down at Corkie, the happy honorary eighth member of the Graham canine brigade. 

“Appears so.” Hannibal said, and fell into step at Will’s side. 

They didn’t speak until they'd turned down the next street and found some relief from the wind. Will emerged from behind his scarf. 

“How was your first _uninterrupted_ night in Manchester?”

“Exactly as you say.”

Will studied Hannibal's profile. “Too quiet?”

“I am no stranger to the absence of noise.”

“It can’t be quiet in Florence.”

“No.” Hannibal agreed, a smile crinkling the corner of his eye. Will switched to watching the dogs when he realized he was practically staring at the other man. 

"What's it like? I've never been."

Hannibal's breath sighed out in a visible cloud that dissipated above them. “There is a constant hum, like a hive below the cobblestones." He said. "The church bells toll and the tintinnabulation rings across the red shingles of terra cotta, an echo brittle but pure. Spring and summer bring the buzz of vespas and the unintelligible cadences of bodies passing through, content to know but the skin of the city, and not her beating heart.”

Will quirked his eyebrows, watching the roiling pull of dogs in front of him like a surfing wave. “Not even the sonnets.” He said.

“Do you travel much, Will?”

“Used to. For work. East coast and Midwest, mainly. Not very exciting.” Will stopped when Charlie meandered wide of the group and raised his leg against a tree. 

“Never left the country?”

Will shrugged one shoulder. “Uhm… Stayed a few weeks in Canada. But the passport expired two years ago and I’ve just… had no pressing need. Work keeps me here, now, so.”

“If you don’t mind my asking.”

“My job?” 

Hannibal nodded.

“Adjunct professor.” Will said, pulling an entire roll of small plastic doggy bags from the pocket of his parka. He tore one off and shook it open, bagging the gift left by Lucy. 

“What do you teach?”

“Criminal justice.” Will said, tying a quick knot in the bag. “Had to quit the field, couldn’t stand to waste all the training.”

“You were in law enforcement?”

Will didn't look at him. “Mmhmm.” 

"What saw you out?"

"I got stabbed. Kinda takes the fun out of it."

"Do you miss it?" 

"No." Will said, without skipping a beat. "No, I'm better off. Less stress, longer life expectancy."

"The words of a mother." 

"Mmm. At least cop work had a steady paycheck. _That_ I miss." 

Having reached the end of the street, they rounded the corner, boots crunching the icy edges off of the curb-side snowbanks. The dogs’ claws tapped a crazy rhythm on the pavement, their collars adding a soft jangling; canine music.

“Where are you from, originally? Your accent's not Italian." Will said, interrupting the thought.

“Lithuania.” Hannibal said, then tipped his head, considering Will more closely. “You’ve migrated, too.”

"Why do you say that?"

"There is a slight incongruence in your accent that suggests different origins yourself."

"Expert, are you?"

"By no means."

Will gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Guess you can take the kid out of the swamp but you can’t take the swamp out of the kid.” He said. “Louisiana. Boatyard mutt.”

“What brought you north?”

“School.” Will said, nudging his glasses further up his cheek. “Then work. Then Bev moved up here, too, and we didn't miss home, so.”

Hannibal hummed, looking off to the snowy evergreens above their heads. Will pulled up short when Charlie strayed towards the nearby fire hydrant half-buried in a snowdrift, lifting his leg. He retreated into the wrap of his scarf as the wind picked up and tried to play with the short curls at the nape of his neck. 

“Is your family still in Lithuania?”

“In a way.” Hannibal said. Will glanced over.

“You don’t like to talk about you, much, do you.”

Hannibal smiled at the accusation. “My family died when I was very young.” He said. “Thus, I went to live with my aunt, in Florence.”

Will’s eyelid flickered. “Oh. Sorry.” 

“Please, there’s no need.” Hannibal assured. “I’ve had my cavil with Death; I quickly learned to digest it. The thought that I, too, might die at any moment motivates me to appreciate all the beauty that life has to offer, while I can.” They continued on, a small parade down the quiet residential street.

“Traveled the world, then?”

“Studied medicine.” Hannibal corrected. 

“The cheated becomes the cheater?”

“That was the idea.” Hannibal agreed. “But for all the lives I helped to save, those lost were the ones remembered, personal failures in my revenge against Death.” 

Will rearranged the leashes in his grip. ”Death always has the last laugh."

There it was again, just a fleeting scrap of what it had been two nights earlier when their paths had first crossed. It lingered at the corner of Will’s mouth and in the microscopic shift of his posture; a tiny retreat, preparation to deflect. Hannibal observed but didn’t comment, leaving his reply to a small hum of agreement. 

They walked the next few blocks in silence, but comfortably so. Despite where their conversation had left off Will couldn’t remember the last time silence in company had felt so relaxed. Hannibal’s posture was easy and open when the wind wasn’t gusting, and the air between them was free of expectation. Their synchronized walking, perfectly in step with each other, seemed communication enough. 

Corkie had his nose to the ground as they started down the winding lane that would take them past Beverly’s cottage. Hannibal’s arm jerked forward when Corkie barked and started tugging against the leash, clearly anticipating the imminent return to a heated shelter that had chicken and kibble but _didn’t_ have this cold white stuff everywhere. Will gave a short whistle and Corkie turned to look at the two humans, his big ears perked high. Will raised his eyebrows.

“Did you go yet?” He said, like a dad making sure that small bladders weren’t going to delay a road trip. Corkie whined and executed a short, impatient circle on the pavement. Will wasn’t impressed.

“Has he tried to forget his housetraining for you?”

“Not as of yet. Should that be a concern?”

“He hasn’t pulled that stunt in years, I think he’s outgrown it. Sometimes he just tries things when Mom’s not home. He… decorated the bathroom rug when I was watching him once. It’ll be interesting to see how he blesses you.” 

“We seem to have an agreement.”

“‘Seem’ being the operative word.” Will muttered behind his scarf, but his eyes had a jesting twinkle when Hannibal looked over. They rounded the next bend and the cottage came into view, half-hidden behind the evergreens. Corkie expedited the journey with lunges and yaps, sending some of Will’s dogs into a barking tizzy as well. 

“Hey, hey, HEY. Knock it off. I raised you better.”

Hannibal stopped with his hand on the gate. Will was in the middle of the lane, half bent as he untwisted two leashes. His cheeks and nose had become quite pink in the wind and his scarf was trying to come unwound, dangling in front of him. He tossed it back over his shoulder and sniffed, unaware of Hannibal’s eyes on him. 

"What are you doing for dinner tonight, Will?" 

That got his attention. Will straightened up, thrown, then gave one of his nervous laughs as he prevented Weegee from winding around his legs with his leash. 

"You know I kissed you on accident." 

Hannibal blinked. "Yes? I fail to see the relevance." Corkie was scratching at the gate at his feet.

“Asking me to dinner?”

“Ah.” Hannibal pushed open the gate. Corkie scrambled beyond, eager to be inside and out of the snow, but his leash didn't let him get past the walk. He turned, giant ears quivering, and stared at Hannibal's back. “I frequently entertain friends and colleagues back home, it’s rather become a habit.” Hannibal was saying. “I apologize if my invitation was misconstrued—“

“No no, of course. Sorry, my dumb assumption. My cooking isn’t typically worth sharing, so.”

Hannibal waited, patient. Will’s hand clenched and unclenched at his side. 

"Uhm. I've got somewhere to be early and it's supposed to start snowing again at three —” 

"Lunch, then?" 

Will looked up. Hannibal's gaze was calm and level, assuring in its easy solidity. Will could see why he was such a prestigious therapist. He had a way of disarming with just his presence and manner, generating a safe space between them beyond convention and judgement, where it felt like all the rules could be rewritten if they wanted them to be.

He let his breath out in a cloud that the wind immediately dashed away.

"Yeah." He conceded. “Sure. Lunch." 

Hannibal smiled.

  


* * *

  


When Will came back just after noon, dog-free and driving the few blocks in case the snow started early, he knew as soon as he stepped out of his car that “lunch” apparently meant something different in Hannibal’s book than it did in his. Sandwiches and chips didn’t permeate the air outside with the heady aroma of herbs and spices. Hannibal was definitely turning out to be the most interesting person he’d ever met, and by ‘interesting,’ he meant ‘complicated’. 

Trying not to feel inferior or, hell, maybe nervous, Will knocked on the door. Corkie scrambled into the foyer to share a selection of his favorite barks. Something went ‘thump’ deeper inside the cottage, and then Hannibal’s voice filtered through the door.

“It’s open.”

Will ducked inside. 

“Jesus… Christ.”

The smell of whatever Hannibal had cooking enveloped him like a hug and Will leaned back against the door, overwhelmed for a moment. Corkie jumped up to paw at his leg and Will pet him on autopilot, leaning sideways to peer into the kitchen just as Hannibal emerged, still drying his hands on a dishtowel. The sleeves of his wine red shirt were rolled past the elbow and he wore an apron tied around his middle, the top half folded down out of sight. Will narrowed his eyes at it.

“Is that the apron I got for Beverly last Christmas?”

Hannibal looked down, then fished the rest of the apron up out of the fold. Beneath the neck tie, it read ‘No Bitchin in My Kitchen’ in a hand-lettered font. Will grinned.

“Yeah it is.”

“I was just preparing to serve up, if you care to join me.”

A healthy fire was popping happily to itself in the sitting room. As Will passed, the clock on the mantle chimed as if in greeting, marking a quarter past the hour. He followed Hannibal into the kitchen to find a cast-iron pan and a covered baking sheet waiting on the stovetop. Hannibal took the lid off the pan. Settled inside, the bottom glistening with butter that still gently sizzled, were two fried livers. The warm, spiced scent of Indian cooking wafted from the pan.

“Tandoori livers,” Hannibal began, reaching for the tin foil that covered the baking sheet on the back of the range top. Removed, it revealed regimental lines of beautifully roasted carrots, garlic, yams, parsnips and onion, like a rainbow across the sheet. 

“…And roasted root vegetables.” Hannibal finished. 

“Are lunches in Italy often so… involved?”

Hannibal smiled as he folded the aluminum foil down into a disposable size and threw it away. “This is not involved.”

“Oh. Of course not.”

“Could you grab the plates from the table?”

Will turned to find two burgundy stoneware plates stacked neatly in the middle of the kitchen table, accompanied by two forks and knives. He set the plates on the countertop as Hannibal was preoccupied carving the livers into perfect strips. 

“So you like to cook, I gather.”

“I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts.” Hannibal said, delicately stacking the livers into cascading spirals, which he garnished with the vegetables. Done plating, he looked up. “Yes. I like to cook.”

Will accepted the plate as if he wasn’t quite sure he believed it was real. Hannibal untied the apron from his middle, folded it, and set it aside before he sat down at Bev’s rickety kitchen table. Will sat down across from him, watching him set a napkin on his lap, and suddenly had to bite down on the urge to laugh. Hannibal, this elegant old soul that oozed culture and sophistication, sitting at his sister’s scuffed-up kitchen table and preparing to eat this lunch that any five-star restaurant would delight to serve at their tables, looked in that moment so comically misplaced it was like finding a penguin in the desert. Hannibal caught Will’s expression and paused with his fork in midair.

“Is something wrong?”

“Are you familiar with the story of the Prince and the Pauper?” Will said, and then heroically lost his shit. For a moment Hannibal looked taken aback, but then he, too, began to laugh. 

  


* * *

  


Two hours later, Will was standing at the cheese counter in the grocery store, accepting a crumbly sample of pecorino cheese. During and after lunch the conversation had bounced nearly everywhere, always returning to food before springing off on some other tangent. Will had ultimately made the rookie mistake of admitting that he was content with a cheap boxed wine and some cheddar, and now he was here, feeling a bit like a chastised schoolboy, as Hannibal sought to teach him better. 

Well, Hannibal had needed to pick up groceries anyway. He stood beside Will, a hand basket secure at the crook of his elbow, bursting with produce, a few small jars of spices, and very specific cuts of meat wrapped neatly in butcher paper. 

“What did you say the region was?” Hannibal asked the man handing them the samples. 

“Sardinia.”

Will almost dropped his sample as it broke apart in his fingers and he tossed it back half in panic. The rich, buttery flavor exploded across his tongue, a hint tangy due to the unfamiliar source of the milk, but in a pleasant, almost nutty way. He raised his eyebrows in almost reluctant concession.

“Alright, I see what you mean.”

Satisfied, Hannibal nodded and pressed a block of the cheese into Will’s hands. “Lesson one, passed.”

“How many lessons are there?”

“Innumerable. We’re forever learning.”

“I wasn’t ready for such a commitment.”

Hannibal just smiled, nodded his thanks to the man at the cheese counter and headed towards the checkouts. Will looked down at the small block of cheese in his hands, a bit miffed by the price tag, and followed. 

“How shall I do this cheese justice? I feel like crackers are sacrilege.” 

“To each their own. But I find it pairs well with fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

Will shook his head. “It’s like a different _language_.” 

Outside the grocery store windows, he could see that snow was beginning to fall. He shook his watch out from under his sleeve. 

“Shit, snow’s starting. We could be in white-out conditions in ten minutes.”

Hannibal took the pecorino from Will’s hand and had the cashier add it to his total. 

“Done. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  


Will pulled into the cottage driveway, reaching into the backseat to retrieve the second grocery bag for Hannibal. 

“Thank you for the ride, Will.”

Will put the car in park. “ _Fava_ beans?”

Hannibal smiled and handed over the block of pecorino. “Limas make an adequate substitute.”

“Better. Thanks for lunch.”

He was halfway to the cottage door when Will rolled the window down.

“Hang on.” He said, starting to pat down his coat pockets. Fruitless, he lifted the armrest of the center console and dug around, then tried the pocket in the driver’s side door. 

“What’s missing?” Hannibal said, back beside the car.

“D’you have a pen?”

“Breast pocket.” Hannibal said, holding the grocery bag clear on his left side. Will hesitated, then reached into his coat and produced an expensive-looking pen from the warm depths. Of course it looked expensive. He gestured for Hannibal to bring one of the bags closer and scrawled something on the brown paper, then just dropped the pen into the bag because he wasn’t about to fumble around in his coat again. Hannibal looked down at the phone number on the bag.

“In case of emergency.” Will said. “I’ll be out of town tomorrow but, uh, you know how to reach me.”

There was snow accumulating in Hannibal’s hair. “Thank you, Will.”

Will nodded once, decisive. He put the car in reverse, foot still on the brake. 

“Stay warm.”

Hannibal’s chest still tingled where Will’s hand had brushed it. 

“Safe travels.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Will's dogs have canon names from the show (Buster, Winston, Lucy) but the rest I took a crack at naming myself. I take no credit for "Weegee", however: I borrowed the name from Hugh Dancy's dog.  
>   
> And [this is Corkie.](https://scontent-ort2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/23275567_1859924580716926_3852327882447860636_o.jpg?_nc_cat=100&_nc_ht=scontent-ort2-1.xx&oh=795cd458d0de0a26cdc17a65decf18df&oe=5CCFE868) He's a good boy ❤︎


	6. Snickerdoodles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly gets lost in Florence, and Will's been keeping a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone was a little over-enthusiastic regarding their ability to update on a daily schedule, and that someone is definitely me. A longer update today, though!

She’d only been here a handful of days, and already Florence was starting to feel familiar. 

The walk from Hannibal’s apartment down to the nearest grocer was second nature. The pastry shop five streets over? Piece of cake. The weekly flower market over by the Apple store? Been there. The Uffizi, the Galleria dell’Accademia, the Ponte Vecchio, she knew exactly where they were and how to get there. She was walking the streets with the confidence of a local, and she hadn’t pulled out a map all day.

…Maybe she’d gotten a little too cocky. 

It was mid afternoon and she was heading back in the direction of the apartment, or so she thought, but now these streets didn’t look at all familiar. 

“Whoops.” She muttered to herself, and started back the way she had come. There had been a three-way crossroads with a tree at the corner where she’d decided to make this turn, she just had to find it again and try a different direction. But two streets later, there was still no intersection. She squinted up at the street name on the nearest building, perplexed. How far had she gone? Was this the right road? Was that the same leather shop or a different one? How many wrong turns had she taken? 

Bev dug for her phone in her purse while she continued down the street, the sidewalks too narrow to loiter down this way. Something was preventing her phone from pulling free and she looked down, irritated, only to collide bodily with someone emerging from a tiny shop almost eclipsed by the two either side of it. Her phone clacked onto the sidewalk.

“Scusa, scusa!” Bev babbled, mortified, then realized exactly whose coat and scarf she was looking at, whose hand was steadying her arm, whose eyes were twinkling down at her. Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh thank fuck.”

Anthony bent to pick Beverly’s phone off the ground, glancing up at her before he flipped it to reveal the screen. Miraculously, it was crack-free. 

“Ugh, thank _fuuuck_.” She said, accepting it back as Anthony straightened up. 

“You look a bit harried, pull off that heist, did you? Polizia hot on your trail?”

“Yes. I’m definitely not just terrifically, hopelessly lost.” She said, wiping dust from her phone case. The plastic was scuffed up on one corner.

Anthony smiled. “I highly recommend getting lost every once in a while. Here. Look what you’ll find.” He gestured into the comparatively dark open doorway he’d just stepped out of. Bev glanced up at him, then ducked inside. 

It was a little hole-in-the-wall art shop, with shelves and shelves of inks, pastels, papers, pens and paints, easels and frames and sharpeners and erasers, brushes and rulers and markers. It was a narrow space but it stretched on and on, Bev could see an entire room near the back of the store just for specialty paper in large sheets and rolls. It _smelled_ like a little mom-n-pop art shop: both the crisp, dry scent of brand new paper and the almond sweetness of aged paper mixed with oily undertones of pastel and turpentine, the cedar hints of sharpened pencils, and the rough, dusty edge of rubber. Under her shoes, the floor was a cute mosaic tile dulled by years of foot traffic.

“Ah! You forgetta something Anthony?” A voice said, and Beverly turned to find a skinny, middle-aged man with a big grey mustache and a black _Journey_ t-shirt that showed off the many tattoos on his arms standing up from behind the counter. He caught sight of Beverly. 

“Oh! You bringa lady friend!”

“Down, boy. Beverly, this is the humble shop owner, Giuseppe.”

“Best art shop ina Florence!” Giuseppe boomed, spreading his arms wide.

“Humble.” Anthony reminded him. 

“Ah, she knows it. So howa you run into this rascal, ah? You from Englanda too?”

“Maryland. Visiting for the holidays.”

“Ah, no better place for it. You like Firenze so far?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s nothing. You shoulda try Siena. Not far. The mosta wonderful place in the world.” Giuseppe leaned over the counter. “My hometown.”

“No bias whatsoever.” Anthony said. Beverly wondered if he realized his hand was at the small of her back. She stepped forward to pick up a small box set of watercolors right there at the checkout counter.

“Best art shop in Florence.” She told Giuseppe, who beamed at her from behind his mustache. 

“You an artist, too?” He asked her. 

“Oh, no. My niece is, though. She would love this place.” There was a pad of postcard-sized watercolor paper on a little spinning display and Beverly added it to the watercolor set. Giuseppe picked out a pad of trading-card sized watercolor paper and dropped it on top of Bev’s collection. 

“That one, too. On me, because I like you.”

Behind her, Anthony raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been demoted.”

Giuseppe looked up from punching numbers into the cash register, his eyes alight with mischief. “You don’t turn up the charm like you used to, ah? You takea old Giuseppe for granted.”

“You’re always my knight in shining armor, Giuseppe, you know that.”

“A little reminder here and there not go amiss. I’m old, I forget.” He winked at Beverly, pushing the small paper bag of her purchases forward on the counter and accepting her ten euro note in exchange. The cash register was old and gave a rich, full _chaching_ when Giuseppe opened the cash drawer. He set Beverly’s change on the counter for her, along with a business card. She reached for it but he kept his hand on top of it and leaned forward. 

“Tell your niece send old Giuseppe one of her painted postcards, ah? He don’t get enough mail.”

“Only if you promise to write back.”

Giuseppe laughed, overjoyed. “Of course!”

“Deal. Wonderful to meet you, Giuseppe.”

“You keepa Anthony out of trouble, yes?” 

“Nah, trouble’s more fun.”

“She’s a keeper, Anthony boy!” Giuseppe called as they stepped back out onto the street. They both pretended they hadn’t heard it. 

“So.” He said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. “A bit lost.”

Beverly looked up at him, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Are you in a hurry to remedy that?” He said.

“No.”

Anthony smiled and held out his arm. Beverly took it and together, they picked a blind direction and followed it.

  


* * *

  


The sun had sunk past the tops of the verdant evergreens and the naked branches of deciduous trees that stretched, like skeletal fingers, towards the golden sky. Hannibal stood at the curb of a slushy residential street, his hand on top of a snow-dusted mailbox. He brushed the crust of frozen white off of the metal. 

_Graham_

_13271_

The address had appeared in Beverly's mailbox that afternoon in the form of a Christmas card, postmarked the day Hannibal had arrived. _Graham, 13271 W Trap Street, Manchester, MD_. He'd taken it as a sign. 

Like Beverly’s cottage, Will’s house backed up to the woods, the trees that surrounded it tall and possessive like looming guardians. Some of the scraggly lower-hanging branches swung to dust snow from the shingles. Will's Volvo sat cold and dormant in front of a detached garage, its tire tracks two bold lines in the snow. Hannibal studied them. The car had been out and back twice; before the snow and after. A mess of paw prints around the calm, steady track of Will's boot prints in the dusty white added to the portrait of quiet, domestic routine.

No Christmas tree twinkled through the street-facing windows of the house but the lights were on, warm and golden, an echo of the fading yellow glow of twilight. No porch light shone, no twinkling lights snaked around the gutters; it was as if Will's house and the surrounding trees were cut out of black paper and held up to the sky, the windows staring out like four unblinking eyes. 

Hannibal adjusted his grip on the grocery tote in one hand and crunched up the drive, adding his own prints to the snow-powdered pavement. He brushed past the feathery arms of overgrown junipers to ascend the single step of the narrow porch. A two-person rocking bench hibernated beneath a window and a metal dog bowl, distended with ice, glinted from the shadowy corner. A “Wipe Your Paws” welcome mat was slightly askew under the door; Hannibal tapped it straight with his toe. The curtains were open and he could see that the nearest window was furnished with a cushioned seat. A small, curly-haired, four-legged body lay on it, asleep. 

Hannibal rang the doorbell. The effect was immediate. 

Barking struck up from inside the house and scrambling claws raced to the front door, skittering over wood. The dog on the window seat -- Weegee -- stood up to bark at him, then disappeared to join the others and Hannibal picked up on the voice approaching the door.

“Knock it off. Hey. HEY! Back up.” The porch light flipped on and the door opened. 

"Hey, sorry we're—“ Will pulled up short, catching sight of the man squinting in the sudden bright of the porch. “Hannibal?” 

"Good evening, Will."

Will dragged Charlie away from the door and stepped out onto the porch, his hand on the knob to keep it between them and the whinging dogs. He glanced over Hannibal’s shoulder to the street, the pink tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"How, um, did you find me?" 

"Your Christmas card arrived this afternoon." 

Will’s face flickered. "You opened my sister's mail?" 

"Collected. Forgive me but I couldn't help but notice the return address." Hannibal tipped his head. His gaze fell to Will's hand still holding the door, to his stocking feet on the frozen welcome mat, to the tightness around his eyes. He hadn't invited him in. It appeared he wouldn't be doing so. 

"You don't find yourself alone this evening." 

Will faltered, a denial dying in his throat and emerging as a vaporous cloud between them. He shook his head. 

Hannibal became acutely aware of the phenomenon of gravity, his feet suddenly feeling as heavy as lead on the snow-dusted chipped paint of the porch. His face remained impassive. He dipped his head.

“Of course. Forgive me the intrusion. It never does well to presume.” He held up the canvas bag. “Please accept these regardless, in apology.” 

Will’s fingers brushed his as they curled around the handle. “Hannibal.“ 

“Please. You owe me no explanations, Will. Have a lovely evening.”

“Hannibal, wait—”

“DAD!” 

By the light of the porch Will saw Hannibal’s eyes flicker. Inside the house, small running footsteps drew nearer the door. There was a jingle of collars as someone navigated the sea of dogs. 

Will was watching Hannibal’s face.

“Dad, is it the cookies? Is it the cookie girls?” 

Will let the door pull out of his grasp. A little girl stepped out onto the frosty welcome mat.

She couldn’t have been more than six years old. Loose coils of glossy, chestnut hair framed her young face and spilled around her shoulders. Light freckles generously dusted her cheeks, nose and forehead. Long, dark lashes ringed her bright turquoise eyes, clear as the shallows of a glassy lake as they stared up at Hannibal. She drew back and clutched the hem of Will’s shirt.

“Dad?”

Will smiled and hauled her up into his arms. 

“Abby, this is Hannibal, the one living at Aunt Bev’s house and watching Corkie while she’s away.”

The uncertainty clouding the young face cleared. “Oh!”

“And Hannibal, this... is Abigail.” Will said, his fingers correcting the twisted front of her little knit sweater. A stag head was emblazoned across the chest.

Hannibal gave a shallow bow of his head. “Very pleased to meet you, Abigail.”

“Nice to meet you too.” She replied, with practiced formality. She turned to Will. “Is he coming inside?” 

Will tried to gauge Hannibal’s state of mind but there was very little to go on. But he was still standing there, so, that was a good sign. Most people weren't fond of this sort of surprise and had legged it half a block by now, dropping generic excuses in their wake. 

“Yeah it’s cold out here.” He decided, setting Abby back on her feet. “Come inside, Hannibal.”

Abigail slipped back into the house, Will steadying the door when she went to push it open. The dogs in the foyer swarmed with renewed vigor and Will grabbed for the canvas grocery bag, using it as a barricade to thwart any escape attempts.

“Watch out for Buster, sweetheart.” He told Abby. Hannibal stepped in behind them, scuffing residual snow from the treads of his boots. 

The foyer of the house was dimly lit and crowded. Boots were piled haphazardly on a weather mat just inside the door; assorted coats and leashes hung in mounded disarray on the wall above them. Abigail scampered off down the hall and three of the dogs broke away to chase after her. 

“Come on! We’re making hot chocolate and snowflakes!” She called back over her shoulder, vanishing into the well-lit room at the end of the hall. Hannibal felt something push against his gloved palm and looked down. The gentle brown eyes of Will’s border collie gazed up at him, adoring. He smoothed the fur of her forehead and she closed her eyes, pressing into it.

Will was trying to kick the cascading mess of boots into something like order.

"For some reason I feel obligated to apologize, but I won't." He said.

"Nor should you. It is I who owe an apology. I forced your hand." 

"You couldn't know."

"I'm sorry to intrude as I did, Will."

Will shrugged with one shoulder, his gaze somewhere near Hannibal's right bicep. "A surprise visit all around." 

Hannibal watched Will’s face. “I can leave."

"Do you want to?" Will challenged, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal just stared calm down the barrel of the loaded question. 

"Don't admit me for the sake of propriety.” He said. “I’ve intruded on your privacy, you are well within your rights to throw me bodily to the curb." 

"I'm not angry. To be honest, it's a relief. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I'm bad enough on my own. But with seven dogs and a six-year-old daughter? This is where I start losing people.” 

“I am much more difficult to scare off.” 

“Yeah, I’m getting that impression. You’re really not bothered?”

“No choice.” Hannibal said, shifting his weight. “Difficult to run with this limp.”

Will smirked, absently ruffling Winston’s ears. “Then take off your coat and stay a while.” He told Hannibal, and walked off down the hall. Winston followed at his heels, claws clicking on the wooden floor. Hannibal looked down at the border collie still sitting beside him and she yawned.

A small voice drifted out into the hall.

“Dad the milk is hissing.”

“Oh, _nuts_.”

Hannibal heard a pot bang onto the back of a stovetop. He slipped out of his coat, hanging it over the familiar drab green of Will’s military jacket on the wall. He let his fingers trail down the jacket sleeve, rubbing the worn and fraying cuff while he listened to the tap running in the kitchen, the water hissing angrily when it hit the hot pan. Will's voice filtered into the foyer as Hannibal retrieved the forgotten grocery tote from beside the hall table.

"That's scalded. Won't make very good hot chocolate."

"It's smelly." Abigail said.

“ _Yeah_ it is." A quiet click, the hum of a vent fan over the stove. "Sorry."

“We can just do it again, right?”

The sound of a fridge door opening. Hannibal heard Will shake a plastic jug. It wasn’t a promising noise. 

"There's not enough milk here, Abs." 

“Oh. That's okay." 

"I'm sorry, sweetie. We've still got chocolate and marshmallows, do you think we can make do?"

"Yeah." She didn’t sound thrilled.

Hannibal stepped into the kitchen to find Will pressing an apologetic kiss to Abigail’s forehead. She sat at the kitchen table with her chin in her hand, absently scraping the tip of a pair of safety scissors over a scattered plethora of printer paper. A mess of paper snowflakes, in various stages of unfolded, littered the rest of the table. She looked up mournfully when Hannibal entered. 

He stepped right up to the table and set the grocery tote on it. Some of her mournful slipped under the weight of her curiosity. 

“What’s that? Is that for us?” 

“Yes. Would you like to open it?”

“ _Yeah_.” She said, sitting up on her knees on the bench. She carefully pushed the canvas sides of the tote down, exposing two glass containers inside. One was a bottle of very expensive-looking rosé, which snagged Will’s attention as Hannibal lifted it out of the way. That left the large square container with the locking lid. Abby peered through the top and caught her breath.

“ _Wooooow_.”

Will glanced at Hannibal, suspicious, and stepped in to look.

Abigail was lifting the container free of the bag and holding it up with wide-eyed awe. Stacked inside were a delicate dozen apple rose tarts: small, meticulous spirals of blush-pink apple-slice blooms nestled within buttery gold French cookie crusts. They positively glowed under the kitchen lights. 

Hannibal was subjected to Will's intense scrutiny again. 

"Are these for us?" Abigail said, stunned. She kept rotating the container as though if she caught them from the right angle the tarts would prove to be a mirage. Will understood entirely. They looked too perfect to be real.

“Yes." Hannibal said.

“Did you _make_ them?”

Hannibal dipped his head. “My recipe produced more than I anticipated. Certainly more than I could eat on my own. Do you like them?”

"I _love_ them they're so _pretty._ “ 

Abigail set the roses down in front of her, still transfixed. Hannibal smiled, unlocking the lid for her. He set one of the rose tarts in her waiting hands. She held it up with delicacy and admiration, as if it was a butterfly sunning on her open palms. Will took a small plate down from the cabinet and tried to hand it to her but she recoiled, defensive.

“It’s too pretty to eat!”

“It’s not too pretty to crumble. All over your art, Abby?”

Begrudgingly, she transferred it to the teacup saucer. “I’m going to draw it.” She announced, pulling sheets of blank paper towards herself and searching for the right pencils. 

“Of course you are.” Will said, fond. “Hey, maybe you could show Hannibal some of your sketchbooks while he’s here. He’s an artist, too.”

She looked up, bowled over all over again. “You _are_?”

“I like to draw.” Hannibal admitted. Abby’s eyes grew wide.

“Be right back!” She said in a rush, and thundered out of the kitchen. They listened to her thump up the staircase and run down the hall upstairs, sounding like a small stampede. 

“Hope you don’t mind.” Will said, in the altered atmosphere of the kidless kitchen. “We so rarely have guests, let alone someone so artistically inclined.” He rolled the bottle of rosé so the label was angled up towards Hannibal, then raised his eyes to look at him.

“You brought me roses.” 

"Well caught." Hannibal said, with a hint of pride. “Nevertheless, just a baking mishap and a bon mot, Will.” 

The bottle clinked softly against the nearby countertop as Will set it aside. 

"You definitely seem the type to make mistakes, not gestures." 

"A gesture of gratitude, for your company and your assistance." Hannibal said. "I've prepared a similar gift for Dr. Du Maurier."

Something in Will’s expression flickered and disappeared, even as he nodded his agreement. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Hannibal opened his mouth to respond, but then they heard the upstairs stampede coming back the other way. One of the dogs barked from the living room as Abigail came running back into the kitchen carrying three sketchbooks mashed to her chest. She dumped them onto the kitchen table, climbing up on her knees on the bench. Hannibal alighted at the other end, his eyes lingering on Will as the other man turned his back and returned to the sink, scrubbing the last of the scalded milk from the bottom of the soaking pan. 

“I draw every day.” Abby was saying, tucking her hair behind her ear as she arranged the sketchbooks in front of herself. Hannibal pulled his attention to her.

“An important trait in any artist.” He approved, leaning forward as she opened the smallest of her collected sketchbooks. “Practice hones your craft.”

She nodded, pleased with his easy agreement and understanding. “I’m gonna be a famous artist and make YouTube videos and get a _million_ subscribers who send me really nice art stuff in the mail.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked up to Will across the kitchen. Despite his evasive hunch, Hannibal could still see a smile on his face. Will set the pan in the dish drainer, leaned over and flicked off the overhead vent fan. 

“You’re very ambitious.” Hannibal told Abby.

“Do _you_ watch any artists on Youtube?”

“I can’t say I’m familiar.”

“I do their art tutorials all the time. Sometimes they turn out really good but sometimes it’s really bad and it looks nothing like what they did and I think it’s because I don’t have the art stuff they used.” She flipped to a double-page spread of flowers and leaves that was colored in with washable marker. The colors were intensely bright, the shading done in purple or blue. “But I still like them.”

Hannibal admired the profile of her wistful face as she looked down at the bright flowers on the page.

“Good, Abigail.” He said, gentle. “Hold on to that. Every drawing is an experiment with form and color: the more we experiment, the more we learn. And that process is always beautiful, no matter how small the scribble. Your art is wonderful.”

Abigail looked up at him, practically glowing. Hannibal could feel Will’s eyes on him now, too. 

“Can I see what _you_ draw?” Abigail asked him.

Hannibal thought about the small sketchbook in the pocket of his overcoat. He thought about the last few pages of drawings and very deliberately did not look at Will. He pulled a piece of printer paper towards himself on the kitchen table and found a pencil under the mess.

“What should I draw?” 

“Can you do people?”

“Yes.”

“Can you draw me?”

Hannibal smiled and set pencil to paper. Abigail maintained a frozen posture only for the stretch of minutes it took her to realize that Hannibal wasn’t looking up for reference. She chanced a glance and then leaned in to watch and Will, drawn in by her expression, found himself gravitating closer as well. He caught sight of the sketch in progress and almost forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t very big, filling maybe a quarter of the page, but every stroke of Hannibal’s pencil was precise and deliberate, expressive curves and marks that captured Abigail on the paper, chin in hand, eyes on her open sketchbook. It was simple and beautiful, a quiet moment preserved in the fine-grit texture of graphite. It had the same sort of unrefined peripheries and absent background as the countless snapshot memories like tattered and scattered polaroids of everyday moments and cherished expressions in Will’s mind.

There was a lump in Will’s throat and also, he realized, two sets of eyes on him. He was standing at Hannibal’s shoulder and he didn’t remember moving in that close. He blinked out of his stupor. 

“I… don’t know what I expected.”

“It’s perfect!” Abby chimed in, borderline accusatory. Hannibal looked down at the sketch, added a spot of shading under the ear. 

“It’s missing something.” He said, considering it. He passed it over to her. “Would you add some flowers, Abigail?”

She stared at it with wide eyes, holding it like a precious artifact. “But it’s perfect.”

“If it’s you it needs some color, I think. And you handle that better than I do.”

“Okay.” She said, distant. She laid the paper on the table in front of her, reverent, but made no move to mark it. Hannibal looked up at Will still beside him, who met his eyes. There was a barely perceptible tightness to his jaw, like he was holding something in restraint. In their periphery, they both saw Abby reach for her apple rose tart. She bit into it and they looked over, startled, when she gave a loud gasp and dropped it like it had bitten her back. 

“What was that?” Will said. Abby hadn’t shut her mouth. Her eyes were wide as she picked something from the apple petals of the rose tart and held it up.

“Dad!” 

It was a baby tooth. It was the same size as the new gap in her front teeth. For a minute, they all stared.

Will gave a whoop and scooped Abby from the bench, whirling her around and then squeezing her in a giddy hug. She giggled, her initial shock giving way to excitement. 

“Gosh, you old woman! We’re going to have to feed you through a straw!”

Will stopped spinning and settled Abigail at his hip, the two of them looking down at the tooth on her palm. Hannibal watched them with a gentle smile in his eyes, feeling a pinch in his chest. 

“Do you know what happens now?” Will was asking her. 

“The tooth fairy?”

“Yeah she’s gonna pay you a visit to collect this.”

“I wanna keep it.”

“Why? You’ve got a whole head full of them.”

“But dad.”

“Okay. Maybe if you write her a note, she won’t take it.”

“Yeah.” 

Will set her back on the floor and she scampered over to the kitchen table, climbing up onto the bench and grabbing for a new sheet of paper. 

“Hannibal your apple rose made my tooth fall out!” She told him. 

“Your first tooth, very exciting.”

“Yeah! Did the tooth fairy take all your baby teeth away too?”

“When I was growing up, it was traditional to drop our teeth behind the stove, to make sure our new teeth grew in as strong as iron.”

It got very quiet.

“What?” Said Abby and Will at the same time. Hannibal smiled.

“In Lithuania, too, it was a tooth mouse that would pick up our teeth. Too cold for the fairies.”

“But I thought you were from Italy.” Abby said.

“I live in Italy now, yes. I grew up in Lithuania.”

“Where is that?” 

“Very north of Italy.”

Abby nodded sagely, reaching for a marker. 

“Finish up that note, Abby. If you’re expecting a visit from the tooth fairy it’s important to stick to your bedtime so she knows when to turn up.” Will said.

“Dad what if my tooth falls off the bed and she doesn’t see it?”

“We’ll tape it to the note.”

“How much money is she gonna leave?”

“Guess we’ll find out in the morning, won’t we?” Will said, kissing the top of her head. “Are you going to finish the tart?”

Abby scrunched her face at Will and then shoved the whole tart into her mouth. Will snorted.

“Don’t choke, you goof.” 

Discreetly, Will slipped Hannibal’s sketch from beneath Abby’s note-in-progress, went and stuck it to the fridge door with a magnet shaped like a paw print. For a moment he met Hannibal’s eye, then they both looked away.

  


* * *

  


Hannibal stood perusing the shelves in the Graham's living room, Janice standing by his side. His fingertips occasionally grazed the top of her head, absent touches that let her know that he knew she was still there. Row upon row of books populated the entirety of the shelving unit in front of him while the other housed DVDs and a short row of CDs. Hannibal was curious to note the absence of family photos on the shelves. Instead, in the few inches of space in front of the books and DVDs, there were some classic knick knacks; a fishing bobber, a few dog figurines that were likely holiday gifts, a chunk of stone with a growth of pyrite, a bundle of sticks tied together with a golden ribbon, a small ceramic dish that had three mismatched screws, a nail and some washers inside, and a candle that had never been lit but claimed to smell like Falling Leaves.

Will came in from the kitchen, holding the bottle of rosé and two plastic champagne flutes in one hand. He’d gone to put Abby to bed almost twenty minutes ago and he _looked_ it, worn down by constant reluctance to settle down and go to sleep.

“She wanted to bring in one of the wildlife cameras from the woods out back.” He said, setting the plastic glasses on the coffee table and sitting down with a long sigh. “To see if we could get a picture of the tooth fairy.”

Hannibal smirked, one hand in his pocket, the other still gentle on Janice’s head. “And how long did that argument take?”

“I said there might be spiders on the camera and she said the tooth fairy would probably be angry if we took a picture of her anyway.” Will said, pulling an all-in-one bottle opener and corkscrew from his back pocket and flipping open the corkscrew.

“Smart girl.” Hannibal said.

“She’s a handful.” Will agreed, strangling the bottle as he yanked on the cork. It finally released with a pop and Will dropped the tool, cork and all, onto the coffee table. “You remember that thing I said about boxed wine?”

“I try to forget.”

Will shook his head as he poured the wine. “I suppose you’re going to spear me next for improper glassware.”

Hannibal accepted the plastic flute and sat down at the other end of the sofa. 

“ ‘Glass’.” He said. 

“Shut up.” Will said, and raised his flute. Hannibal clinked glasses, or rather thunked plastics, and smiled behind a sip. Will sank back against the couch, staring vacantly into the low fire across the room. Buster jumped up and settled in between the two of them. 

“Thanks for sticking it out.” Will said, distant. Hannibal turned his head to look at him, brow pinched. 

“I’ve had people get mad, before.” Will explained, thumbing the rim of his glass. It was slightly rough, an unsanded ridge in the plastic. “Like Abby’s some tortured animal I keep in the basement. I know it’s a pretty big secret to keep, but…”

“Their loss entirely, Will.” Hannibal interrupted, shaking his head. “She’s wonderful. You should be proud.”

“Thanks. I am.” He fell into a contemplative silence for a moment, then, “Do you have kids? You just… you’re really good with Abby.”

Hannibal set his glass on the coffee table and sank back against the couch cushions. “No children of my own, no. But I was father to my sister, Mischa.”

Will toasted with his glass. “Ah. We have sisters in common.”

Hannibal looked ready to say something else, but he visibly dismissed it. They sat for a while in the quiet ambiance of the dying fire, snapping and popping to itself in the grate. One of the logs collapsed with the hollow, chalky noise of shifting charcoal. 

“We’re going to pick out our tree tomorrow.” Will said into the peaceful bubble that surrounded them. “You’re welcome to come along.”

Hannibal’s smile seemed to soften the sharp angles of his face, exaggerated by the firelight. Like the night they’d met. It already seemed years ago, somehow. 

“Thank you, Will.”

  


* * *

  


“I have bad news.”

Beverly looked over, still perched on the cusp of a trance-like state. Just over the stone railing beside her, the rooftops of Florence were awash with the orange-pink of the setting sun. On the terrace around them, café lights twinkled like giant stars, scattering their glinting reflections across the empty plates, silverware, wine and water glasses on the white tablecloth in front of them. Dimmond sat back. 

“We’ve done it. We’ve seen the best of Florence. I’m afraid she can’t top this.”

Bev set her wineglass down and tucked her coat in closer against her body. The night chill was setting in and she could almost see her breath.

“Go on.”

Dimmond smiled and leaned forward again. The candle in the middle of the table made the hint of silver in his carefully trimmed stubble sparkle like glitter and the café lights looked like a constellation in his eyes. Bev moved her wineglass further away from herself.

"When in Rome, they say." Dimmond said.

"You're a little off target." 

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Hour twenty by train." 

Bev's eyebrow raised conspiratorially. "Day tripping?"

"Are you up for it?" 

Bev lifted her glass of water between them. Dimmond clinked his glass against hers with a clear, crisp ping.

" _Ciao Firenze_."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giuseppe and his little art shop is an actual place I visited while studying abroad in Florence. He's based on jetlagged memory, though, so he's probably a bit... embellished. The mustache and tattoos, however, are 100% real.
> 
> Yes, the stove lore and tooth mouse are a real thing, at least according to my limited research on global baby-tooth traditions.
> 
> If Abigail seems a little advanced in skill for her age, it's because she's a real smart cookie ;D The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, eh?


	7. Gingersnaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, but they'd never expect what happened next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Manchester-focused chapter, we'll hear more from Italy later.
> 
> Fair **trigger warning** there's some bloody violence on the horizon.

Hannibal was upstairs when a car horn gave two sharp beeps in front of the cottage. He nudged the curtain aside. 

“Hurry up before all the good trees are gone!” Will shouted, leaning out the driver’s side window. Hannibal smiled, tugging on a sweater as he descended the stairs. Corkie looked up from the couch as Hannibal swung his coat over his shoulders, but lost interest when he remembered it was still all white and cold outside. 

“This is for you.” Abigail said as Hannibal ducked into the passenger’s seat. She fought her seatbelt to lean forward, passing a folded piece of paper over his shoulder. He flipped it open to find a drawing of himself – coifed hair, overcoat and all – but sporting resplendent pale pink lacewings that glittered with a metallic sheen. In one hand he was balancing a giant apple rose tart, above which the hovering image of a molar was haloed in bright yellow rays. A small brown dog with big ears sat at his feet, a pile of coins beside him. 

“It’s you and Corkie as the tooth fairy and the tooth mouse.”

Hannibal’s smile stretched wide across his face. 

“Did they pay you a visit last night?”

Abby dug in her pocket and produced a golden dollar coin, beaming with her new gap-toothed smile.

“That’s quite a return.” Hannibal said, impressed.

“It’s gold!”

“You must have premium teeth.”

Abby leaned forward to look at the card over Hannibal’s shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. Thank you, Abigail.”

Will popped the car into gear. “Let’s go get a tree.”

  


* * *

  


They drove a ways out of town on winding back country roads, the snowy landscape rolling past the windows, white fields and powdered trees zipping past. It was just under the thirty minute mark when Will leaned forward in his seat and slowed to take a left onto a long gravel drive, passing a painted plywood sign at the corner that screamed **FRESH CUT CHRISTMAS TREES** in bold black strokes. 

They coasted down the narrow gravel road, row upon meticulous row of planted trees scrolling past to their right, and pulled into a makeshift parking lot. A temporary market stall, painted bright red, stood among dozens and dozens of pine trees on the packed and trodden snow. A great big metal archway marked the entrance, the words “Muskrat Tree Farm” welded across the top.

They bundled out of the car, wrapping scarves and coats tighter around their bodies. Abby grabbed her dad’s arm and started tugging him towards the archway, excited.

“Come on, Dad, let’s get a really BIG one this year!”

Will laughed, taking her hand. “Our ceiling’s still the same height it was last year, sweetheart.”

“We’ll put it in the _backyard_ and decorate it!”

“How is Santa going to leave presents if he comes down the chimney and the tree’s in the backyard?”

“Dad I want a really BIG tree!” Abby whined, hanging off his arm. 

“Eight feet _is_ really big.” Will said. “It’s taller than me. It’s taller than Hannibal.” 

Hannibal smiled, walking at Will’s shoulder. Abigail scurried forward so she could see him as they walked.

“Hannibal do you put up a tree at home?”

“In Italy?”

“Yeah.”

“Not usually, no.”

“Then what do you do?”

“On Christmas Day, I prepare a very large and extravagant dinner and subsist purely on leftovers for the following four days, same as you.”

They passed under the archway and into the tree yard.

“You’ve never decorated a Christmas tree?” Abigail asked, stuck on this horrifying concept. 

“Not never. Just, not usually.”

“Then you have to help us pick out the _biggest_ one so we can put extra decorations on it to make up for you not getting one usually.” Abigail reasoned, grabbing Hannibal’s arm now too, dragging them both onward like a tugboat bringing two ships to harbor. Will exchanged a glance with Hannibal as they let themselves ferry across the tree yard. 

“Where are these extra decorations to come from, in your mind?” Will asked. 

“The store, Dad, duh.” 

“Does _money_ grow on this giant tree of yours? This is turning into a very expensive Christmas.”

“It’s a _special_ Christmas because Hannibal’s here.” She said, then drew up short, her eyes growing bright and wide. 

They stood before a towering fir tree, artfully dusted with the fresh powder of the recent snowfall, a looming giant wrapped in colored lights and topped with a shimmering metallic star. Abigail covered her mouth in awe. 

“Like _that_ one.” She breathed. Will considered the size of it and then raised a musing finger. 

“What about several _small_ trees instead of one I can’t fit on the car.” 

Abigail turned to appraise him. “One for each of us?”

“That’s not counting the dogs.” 

“But _Dad_.” 

“I’m playing the opposable thumbs card we can’t decorate ten trees and still have time for Christmas.” 

Abigail crossed her arms. “Three trees.” 

“Two trees.” 

“ _Three_.”

“One regular tree and one small one for the end of the hall upstairs.” 

She considered this. “Can we put presents under it?” 

“If the dogs allow it, I don’t see why not.” 

She nodded. “So that’s extra presents for under the small tree.”

Will laughed, his breath an abrupt cloud that dissolved in the frigid air. “Objection, your honor, this is unsupported extrapolation.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re assuming a lot.” Will said, setting his hand on top of her red hat. 

“Dad it’s not a Christmas tree without presents underneath it.”

“So we’ll just move some upstairs.”

“But then it’ll look emptier downstairs.”

“You’re in a very argumentative mood today.” Will said, glancing around the yard. “Let’s go look at the reasonably sized trees. Come on.”

She cut him off on his way, scurrying ahead of them across the yard. “I get to pick it! I get to pick it!”

“She's quite the negotiator." Hannibal said as they trailed in her wake. Beneath their feet, the heavily boot-printed snow had countless pine needles pressed into it, like fancy soap.

"Manipulator, I'd say. Dad tries not to be so malleable but she knows where he's softest."

“Perhaps not as soft as you imagine.”

“Oh really.”

"We'd be lashing an eighteen-foot tree to your station wagon right now."

"Dad, walk _faster_!"

“Good things come to those who wait, Abigail.” Will called. “Watch what’s going on around you, sweetie, you’re going to get trampled.”

Abigail turned to find a young couple stopped short on their way past, the man balancing a netted tree over his shoulder. She pressed herself out of the way by flattening against the nearby trees. 

“Sorry.” Will told the couple as he and Hannibal caught up. Abby broke from the trees to grab Will’s hand, wedging herself between him and Hannibal.

“You’re fine.” The woman said, waving it off. “She’s very cute.”

“It works in her favor.” Will said. They exchanged holiday wishes and kept on, but Abby stayed hidden against Will’s coat. 

“Come on, no harm no foul.” Will said, lifting her into his arms. He settled her at his hip and pointed towards the trees ahead of them. “Did you see the blue one?” 

  


In the end, they picked one eight-foot Fraser Fir and a three-foot White Pine for the end of the hall, which Abigail insisted upon because it was ‘fluffy, like Winston’s tail’. The tree yard attendant, a teen with lank blond hair piled on top of his head and an I’d-rather-be-anywhere-else attitude, netted both trees for them and then gestured to the checkout stall.

“Margot handles the cash. Have a happy holiday.” He dismissed, with a smile that just looked like he was holding a lemon in his mouth. He sat back down on the stump beside the Christmas tree baler, flipping open a pocket knife to continue hacking away at a stripped branch from his pile of trimmings. Will hauled the big tree up onto his shoulder and bent to grab the little one, too, but Abigail got there first.

“I want to carry it.” She said, hugging it to herself like a teddy bear. 

“Okay but don’t squeeze it too tight, you’ll get sap all over your coat and mittens.”

“I won’t.” The netting on the stump end of the tree dragged in the snow beside her boots. Hannibal watched this with a tiny smile. 

At the checkout stall, Abigail started doing a little antsy dance, foot to foot. Will caught it out of the corner of his eye.

“Is this your impatient dance or the Steakback Shuffle?” He said, handing Margot the signed receipt.

“Steakback.”

“Can it wait a minute while I get the trees on the car?”

“Uh-uh.” Abby said, shaking her head vigorously.

“Steakback?” Hannibal inquired. Will glanced over, stuffing his wallet back into his coat pocket.

“Outhouse Steakback. It’s… a long story she needs to make a stop.”

“I’ll take her.” Hannibal said, holding out his hand. Abigail grabbed it, her red mitten soft and fuzzy against his palm. “We’ll be right back.”

“Behave, Abigail.” Will called after them. Abby didn’t appear to have heard him, skipping to keep up with Hannibal’s longer stride as they headed towards the farmhouse further up the shallow hill. Will watched the two of them walking off hand-in-hand, Hannibal letting Abby swing his arm and smiling down at her. A warm feeling began to unfurl behind Will’s ribs, like wrinkled petals opening in a beam of sunlight. 

“Cute.” Someone said, and Will realized he was still standing there at the checkout stall, staring. Margot’s smile was a touch too perceptive for Will’s liking. 

  
  


Will was waiting under the big arch of the tree yard when Abigail and Hannibal came back down the path. She ran ahead the last couple of yards and came to a jumping halt right in front of Will.

“Ready to go?” He said.

“Ye—“ Her eyes caught on something behind him and she gave a little gasp of discovery. "Dad look."

Will followed her gaze skyward. A small bundle of mistletoe hung from the arched entrance above them. 

"Uh oh."

He looked back down at her. She recognized the mischief in his eyes. Giggling, she raised her arms and he lifted her by her wrists, letting her booted feet climb his legs.

“Uh oh, Abby, you know what this _mee-eans_!” He sang, then in one swoop he hauled her up and snatched her in his arms, burying smacking kisses against her face and the side of her neck. She burst into squealing laughter and smooshed her mittened hand against his cheek. 

" _Dad!_ "

Hannibal reached them, his hands in the pockets of his coat. 

“Miss, is this gentleman bothering you?”

Abby emerged from Will’s smooch attack red in the face from laughing.

“Oh no, Hannibal’s under it!”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to the mistletoe. Abby pointed to him and grabbed her dad’s scarf.

“Dad!”

Will shook his head and set Abigail back on her feet in the snow. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Abby.”

“But the bad luck!”

“It’s just a superstition, hun. Like black cats and ladders.” He raised his eyebrows at Abigail’s worsening panic. “What?” 

“Dad you _know_ Grandma saw a black cat walk under a ladder _the same day_ her uncle died.”

“ _That’s_ coincidence.”

She tugged on the ends of Will’s scarf. “We can’t let coincidence happen to Hannibal, Dad!”

“Abigail, it’s fine.”

“He _needs_ a kiss!”

Hannibal tapped her shoulder. When she turned, he pressed a kiss to his gloved fingers and then held out his hand, an invitation. Abigail caught on and kissed her own fingers, clapping her hand onto Hannibal’s.

“Dad, quick!”

Will touched his fingers to his lips and set his hand on top.

“Good?”

Abigail threw her hand into the air in victory, leaving Will and Hannibal’s hands stacked on top of each other. Will quickly busied himself digging out the car keys. 

“Good. Let’s go, we’re burning daylight.”

  


* * *

  


They pulled into the driveway of W. Trap street and Will took the keys out of the ignition, handing the keyring to Abigail in the backseat. The little white pine was buckled into the seat next to her, a towel beneath it to protect the seat.

“Abby, can you go let the dogs out into the backyard for us? We’ll have to prop the front door open to get the tree inside.” 

“Yeah.” Abby threw off her seatbelt eagerly, jumping out onto the gravel drive and scurrying past the snowy branches of the junipers that eclipsed the sidewalk. Meanwhile, Hannibal and Will worked to release the tree from the roof of the car, hauling it onto their shoulders. 

“All clear!” Abby called from the porch. The front door was wide open behind her. 

“You’re a trooper.” Will said as he and Hannibal came up the walk, the world’s slowest battering ram. “You wanna grab the little one from the backseat?” 

There was already a space cleared in the Graham’s living room, an empty tree stand waiting patiently. Hannibal held the tree level while Will tightened the screws around the trunk, and then the netted tree was standing like a cotton candy mishap in the corner of the living room. Abby came in with the little tree and kicked the front door closed.

“What do I do with Piney?”

Will stood in the middle of the living room fluffing his hair, his hat tossed onto the sofa. 

“Hold on to him for a minute, I’ll go get the rest of the bins from the basement, we’ll put some music on and get decorating. How’s that sound?”

“Yeah!”

  


* * *

  


“Pass me the bells and the tiny fish?”

Bing Crosby crooned from the stereo, singing about glistening treetops and sleigh bells, the old recording sounding almost like it was playing from another room. Titan and Buster were posted on the window seat like vigilant sentries while Winston and Charlie patrolled the room and occasionally split to see what was happening in the backyard, tails vaguely wagging as they gazed out the back sliding door. Weegee was upside-down in the armchair, already bored of the decorating; Lucy had her snout in one of the empty ornament boxes on the floor; and Janice was under the coffee table with just her tail sticking out. Abigail dug around in the rubbermaid until she found the ornaments Will was talking about and bounced over with them, holding them up. He hooked them onto his fingers and watched recollection break across Abby’s face.

“Dad where did Hannibal g— oh.”

Half-hidden by the rubbermaid bin on the coffee table, Hannibal was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa, quietly studious. There was a short stack of paper beside him and he looked to be folding something. Abby moved closer until she was knelt across from him, watching as if in a trance. Will peered out from hooking a bell behind the tree and a diaphanous smile grew as he witnessed Hannibal complete one last fold and lift the paper to his lips: when he blew, a little pillow lantern popped into shape. Abby jumped to her feet.

“Whhooaa! What is it?”

Hannibal stood up with an easy uncrossing of his legs and brought the paper lantern to the tree, fitting it over one of the lights on the string. It lit up with a soft, diffused glow. Abby’s eyes got very wide, then she grabbed Hannibal’s arm and started pulling him back to the coffee table.

“Show me show me!”

“ ‘Please’. “ Will prompted from behind the tree.

“ _Please_ show me! I want to make those too!”

Hannibal laughed, just a rumble in his chest, and pulled the paper towards them. “Let’s start with this one. Ready?”

Abby nodded with sharp intent.

“Follow my lead.”

Will finished placing ornaments and sat down on the sofa with a classic dad groan, Winston jumping up to crowd his lap. Hannibal’s voice was quiet as he walked Abigail through each fold, backtracking as needed when too much happened in one step, tapping the paper to indicate which points came together and providing assurance when she thought hers didn’t look right.

When they were done, they each had a paper butterfly lying on their open palms. Abby was thunderstruck.

“DAD LOOK LOOK LOOK!” 

“I’m looking.” Will laughed, realizing Abby had been so engrossed she hadn’t noticed when he’d joined them. “That’s pretty amazing.”

Abby plopped back down to kneeling in front of the coffee table and pulled more paper towards herself. “Show me again!” She said, then glanced self-consciously up at Will on the sofa. “I mean _please_ show me again, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal and Will exchanged an amused glance and then Will was getting up from the couch with another groan, dislodging Winston who had been enjoying ear scratches while draped over Will’s lap. Hannibal looked up just as Will stretched his arms over his head. His attention snagged when he caught the glint of a belt, then lingered on the strip of tummy exposed by Will’s shirt riding up. Hannibal lowered his eyes, the trail of fuzz between Will’s buckle and belly button an image that refused to fade.

“I’m going to go start supper.” Will said, touching the top of Abby’s head as he passed.

“What are we having?” 

“Spaghetti.”

“And garlic bread?”

“Always.”

“Dad makes the best garlic bread.” Abigail informed Hannibal, still following him fold for fold on their second paper butterflies. 

Twenty minutes later, he could smell why. There was at least one head of garlic roasting, the sharp bite of raw garlic freshly minced curling around the sweeter scent. Abby had brought out her markers and they now sat coloring the wings of the dozens of paper butterflies that were scattered across the coffee table. Hannibal capped the brown marker he had borrowed and laid his work in front of Abigail, who was applying a black border and spots to her blue-winged butterfly. Will poked around the living room wall, holding a slotted spoon.

“Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Dad look what Hannibal did.”

“ _Now_ what.” Will said, coming closer. He nodded, impressed. “A death’s head hawkmoth.”

“Yeah a deathshed hockmith.” 

Will battled the smile that wanted to break. “I really like all of yours, Abs, is that a Morpho you’re working on?”

“Yeah. Like Molly, in the garden.”

Hannibal felt the shift more than he saw it. It was like all the shelves in the room had come crashing down, shaking the floor, but nothing moved. Nothing showed on Will’s face, except when he smiled it flickered at the corners, barely perceptible, and the creases seemed too deep around his eyes. 

_Like Molly, in the garden._ Hannibal looked down at the hawkmoth, at the shape of a human skull emblazoned across the wings.

“Dad take a picture before we put them in the tree.”

The phantom moment evaporated. Hannibal watched Will and Abby balance the butterflies on her outstretched arms while privately, the image of a blue butterfly floated into a room in his memory palace and alighted on the soft cotton of a flannel shirt. It lingered, delicate wings opening and closing with tiny motions, lighter than paper. Then the flannel shifted, expanding, stretched over a human chest.

_Will, asleep on the sofa in Beverly’s cottage, the lavender light of dawn filtering through the window, making his skin look unrealistically soft and smooth even as his shirt was twisted and his hair was crumpled and sticking up on one side. Corkie lay curled up at Will’s feet, watching Hannibal with sleepy eyes as he stood in the hall looking in._

The butterfly turned its back and opened its wings: a shield over Will’s heart.

Something touched his shoulder and Hannibal jumped.

“You were deep.” Will said, standing above him. “Okay?”

He nodded once, short. Will held out his hand and Hannibal took it, allowing Will to tug him to his feet. He didn’t realize how much of his body had fallen asleep until he stood up and everything began to tingle and prickle back to life. His leg gave an unhappy throb and he limped a few steps before he could shake it off. Will threw him an understanding glance.

“How’s the tailbone.”

“Mm. Very present.”

Abby came running in from a different room, water still beaded on her hands, and hauled herself into her seat at the dining room table. Will brought the plates in, trying to apologize for his sub-par equivalent of an Italian classic, but Hannibal wouldn’t hear it. 

“Please, Will. I’ve heard nothing but glowing reviews.”

Will smothered his own doubtful muttering behind a mouthful of spaghetti. He chose that moment to look up at Abby, who was in the process of discovering that spaghetti noodles fit perfectly through the new gap in her teeth. 

“Dad!” She said, then grinned maniacally, noodles hanging where her front tooth should have been. 

The food was almost cold by the time they were done laughing.

  


* * *

  


The soap in the dish wand was a pinkish orange and smelled like citrus. 

Hannibal’s sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, sudsy to his wrists, making quick work of the dishes while Will put the leftovers in the fridge and wiped down the counters and the electric range top. 

“Guests aren’t supposed to do the dishes.”

Hannibal swirled the last plate under the hot water and set it in the dish drainer. “Too late.”

“Hey dad?” 

Abby was hanging into the kitchen from the living room side. 

“What’s up.”

“Are we gonna watch a Christmas movie?”

Will looked down at his watch. “Yeah, we can, a short one.”

“And Hannibal, too?”

“Probably not, Abs, he’s got to get back to feed Corkie.”

“And then he can come back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“But _dad_ ,” Abby whined, a champion pout beginning to form, “just one movie? _Please_? A short one?”

Hannibal crouched down to be more at a level with Abigail. “Tell you what. How about you and your dad come over in the morning and I’ll make you a _colazione all'italiana_.”

“What’s that?”

“Italian breakfast.”

Abby eyed him dubiously, but Will could tell her sulk was deteriorating in the face of the new invitation. 

“Okay.” She finally conceded, but still made it a point to go off and mope in the living room. Hannibal stood up, smiling after her and unrolling his sleeves. 

“Silver tongue.” Will said. “When do you get a break? This is supposed to be your relaxing vacation.”

“The implication being that I should find your company stressful?”

“ _I_ do.” Will mumbled, mostly to himself. He blew out a breath. “Thanks. For your help today.”

“You’ve been a sensational host.”

“You’re feeling charitable.”

Hannibal opened his mouth to argue the integrity of Will’s virtues but stopped, reluctant to give Will any more fodder for self-deprecating retorts. He left it at a smile and went to the front hall to bundle up. Will followed.

“Do you want me to drive you back?”

“It’s calm and clear out tonight, and I plan to split the journey with a stop at the market.” He turned up his collar and pulled it snug around his neck. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.”

Will watched from the front door, his silhouette a glowing shape illuminated by the golden warmth of the house. Hannibal tucked his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat, his breath puffing from his nose in white clouds as his boots crunched down the long driveway. 

As he walked, Hannibal let his eyes wander to the clear dark sky above him, strewn with stars, sharp and bright points of light in the cold night air. The market wasn’t far from W. Trap but the cold had still slapped his face pink by the time he stepped through the automatic doors and into the florescent warmth beyond. 

There were very few others in the market so there was only one cash register attended. As he was paying, a man stepped into line behind him, grabbing a packet of Icebreakers gum from the rack and slapping it onto the conveyer. When Hannibal glanced his way it was to catch the man sizing him up, eyes lingering just a millisecond too long on the hidden pocket where Hannibal had put his wallet. Accepting his groceries from the cashier, he stepped back out into the chill and headed in the direction of the cottage. 

After two streets, he changed his route. 

He was being followed. 

The man from the market was keeping quite a bit of distance between them, as if they just happened to be walking the same way, but Hannibal knew subtlety and this lummox didn’t have it. Hannibal still had a lot of large bills in his wallet from currency exchange, he knew his tail was aware. To make matters worse, he was dressed in an expensive tailored coat and fine trousers and he was walking home alone in the dark. He was a clear and easy jackpot. 

Smiling internally, Hannibal stepped into the woods. Eventually, he knew, it would put him at Beverly’s backyard, but the trees stretched for blocks and blocks to the west and north of the cottage, too, and abutted many other residences besides. He wanted to see how desperate this dipstick was: if he would follow a foreign stranger alone into the dense part of the woods at night, he’d have more than just his own common sense to worry about. 

Hannibal was glad for his comparatively exceptional vision as he navigated the roots and trees with relative ease, his boots compressing the leafmold and pine needles that carpeted the ground. Yards behind him, he could hear the snapping and crunching of the man still following. Hannibal set his grocery bags aside against the trunk of a nearby tree and kept on at a slightly elevated pace, suggesting a sense of urgency and desperation to create some authenticity in the chase. 

This was far enough. 

He stopped running under the pretense of catching his breath. The man came ripping through the trees behind him, adrenaline running now, his target incapacitated. Hannibal turned to face him.

“What do you want from me?”

The man had one hand shoved in the kangaroo pocket of a black hoodie, but there was a very obvious, very _dangerous_ shape pointing in Hannibal’s direction. Hm. That he’d missed.

“Give me your wallet.” The idiot said, gruff. Hannibal adopted a charade of nerves in the face of the armed threat. 

“P-please don’t.”

“You think that’s gonna work? Give me your wallet!” The man barked. Hannibal hesitated, acting out a thought process, then gave a small nod. He started to reach for his inner breast pocket.

“Other hand where I can see it!”

Hannibal slowly raised his left hand, letting his teeth chatter so his jaw visibly quivered. He tugged the wallet free from his pocket and brought it out into the chill night air. 

“I’m visiting from another country, if I could just keep my ID —“

“Just give me the goddamn wallet! All of it! Now!”

Hannibal held the wallet out, his arm only half extended. The man, frustrated, made an impatient swipe for it and Hannibal brought his raised left hand down hard to crack against the side of the man’s head. As he stumbled in shock and pain, Hannibal brought his knee up to meet his face. Something crunched and the man howled, clutching at his nose.

“Fuck! You motherfucker!”

The man’s furious bull-charge caught him around the middle and slammed him against the trunk of a tree. He tried to twist out of his grip but the man sunk his fist into his stomach, winding him, and then landed a punch to his head when he doubled up. The right side of his vision exploded in a spray of bright lights and the man let him drop to the ground, swinging a kick for his stomach but Hannibal rolled clear, regaining his feet. The man grabbed for the gun in his hoodie pocket and Hannibal surged forward, gripping the man’s wrists so hard he felt bones clicking and grinding under his hands. The man roared his pain and outrage, unable to shake him off, and smashed his forehead into Hannibal’s face in retaliation. Hannibal tried to miss the blow but didn’t have the time and took the brunt to his left eye socket, his eyes watering while his hands still clamped as hard as they could around the man’s wrists. The pain of his ripped nail from before was so acute it had become white noise. Hannibal grit his teeth, his arms shaking, then suddenly shoved forward while he kicked the man’s legs out from under him, dropping him hard onto his back. Unfortunately, the jostling tore the gun free from the man’s pocket. The _cccrik_ sounded too sharp in the cold air around them. 

Hannibal stared down the unblinking eye, panting. 

“You’d shoot me dead, in these woods, for my wallet?“

“If you had cooperated I could have just been on my way, but you chose to be _difficult_.”

“And when you go to fix your nose? You don’t think they’ll put two and two together?”

The man hissed from behind his teeth, spraying blood that still gushed from his broken nose. It was black like tar in the dark of the surrounding woods. “Bar fight. Happens all the time.” He snarled.

“And my body?”

“Bottom of the ravine.” 

A smile grew on Hannibal’s face. The man squinted up at him like he didn’t believe that’s what he was seeing.

“You’re not a killer.” Hannibal said.

“What makes you so sure?” 

“I know my kind.”

In the seconds it took for the man to process this, Hannibal had already kicked the gun from his hand and brought his heel down hard against the side of his head. The man fell limp, his head lolling, unconscious. 

In the ringing silence that descended, Hannibal took off his gloves and gingerly touched his face. His left eye was already swelling, a split bleeding on his cheekbone. The wrap around his torn nail was soaked with fresh blood. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back where the collision with the tree had torn skin. Once the adrenaline faded, he knew, he was in for a world of pain. 

Hannibal’s wallet was pressed into the leafmold, stepped on at some point in the skirmish. He pried it up and brushed it off, tucking it away as he looked down his nose at the would-be mugger. He let out a long breath and rolled his neck on his shoulders.

“What kind of a night is it tonight?” 

  


* * *

  


There were several large, bowl-shaped scoops in the snowdrift outside the cottage’s back door. 

Hannibal lowered himself into the freezing bath, the last of the snow dissolving around him. He sat with his feet up over the edge of the tub, waiting to go numb. His skin prickled with the cold, electric buzz of pain. He breathed through it, three deep cycles of inhale-exhale, then sank in over his head.

He stood with his hand on the newest door in his memory palace: it led into the same room from earlier. The door was dark green, the paint cold and slightly tacky under his palm. Snow fell onto a welcome mat that told him to ‘Wipe Your Paws’. He gave the door a push and it swung open, slow; a high frame rate reduced to half normal speed. The foyer didn’t belong to the cottage, like the door did. The foyer was littered with boots, coats, leashes and scarves. Will stood right inside, Abigail perched on one hip as he adjusted her red hat over her wavy chestnut hair. They both turned heads to smile at him. Slowly, their faces fell to horror. 

Looked like he’d be canceling breakfast plans. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :OO
> 
> I debated for a long time whether or not Hannibal was going to keep that most endearing and problematic trait of his, since this is supposed to be a happy-fuzzy Christmastime AU full of holiday cheer. But Hannibal let me know his feelings on the matter. Stay tuned for more at 8.
> 
> Maybe someday I'll show you what the end of this chapter _used_ to look like. It involved a slushy bridge and a blue 2005 Dodge Neon, and it was pretty crazy. I still love it.


	8. Digestives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recoveries and discoveries.

**FATAL CRASH OFF CHESAPEAKE BRIDGE**

_A local man was found this morning in the burned remains of a pickup truck after the vehicle appears to have lost control in the icy conditions of Chesapeake Bridge and plummeted into the ravine. The victim of the accident has yet to be identified. In the meantime, law enforcement urges that you take heed of posted cautionary signs and please remember to drive responsibly in wintery conditions._

  


Propped up against his headboard with his tablet in his lap, Will wasn’t conscious of the perturbed expression that had settled over his face. He scrolled down to the short article’s comment section to see if the local rumor mill had dropped by with further insights. He wasn’t the only one looking for clues.

  


_Anyone heard more?_

  


_No joy. Police scanner’s using John Doe_

  


_What a terrible thing to happen. And right before Christmas. Keeping the family in my prayers._

  


_FYI the bridge is still roped off I had to go through town this morning. It looks like they had to call in crew from Millers and Greenmount to manage. Crazy._

  


_Just terrible. Drive safe out there, Manchester._

  


_a friend of mine says they think the truck belongs to that Chadwick guy they saw it on the bridge looking like it got pulled out of hell_

  


_Jason Chadwick? The guy who kicked a hole through the video slots machine in Glen’s bar?_

  


_You know I saw his wife in Safeway the other day with a black eye the size of Rhode Island I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out to be him._

  


_Just awful. Sending prayers for a safe holiday everyone._

  


_Hmm_

  


_What a nasty thing to suggest Beth Chadwick doesn’t have a violent bone in her body_

  


_She had plenty of broken ones, didn’t she?_

  


The bedroom door shifted in his periphery and Will half startled, then relaxed when Abigail padded in. 

“You're up early. Is something wrong?" He sat up straighter against the headboard. She shook her head and slithered up onto the duvet, rubbing at heavy-lidded eyes. Will gathered her in next to him and kissed her forehead. 

"Bad dreams again?”

Abigail nodded. 

“I'm sorry sweetheart. Do you want to tell me?"

She shook her head. 

"Okay then." He pulled her onto his lap, adjusting the duvet over them both and settling in. She smelled like sleep and faintly of the lavender and chamomile spray that they misted on her pillows every night. He thought it had been helping. He inhaled and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on top of her hair. Abigail picked up his hand and started tracing the lines on his palm.

“Dad.”

“Yeah.”

She was quiet for a minute. Then, “Is Hannibal going to stay here? In Manchester?”

Will stared at the red plaid of the duvet. 

“Not forever. He has to go home to Italy before the new year."

"Why?"

"To give your Aunt Bev her house back." 

"Oh." She folded each of his fingers down, one by one, until she'd made his hand into a fist. She started opening it again. "He could live here? With us?"

"He's got work, honey. He's got a house and a job and friends all back in Italy waiting for him to return." 

“We’re his friends.”

“Yes.” Will agreed. “We’re his new friends from America.”

She kept folding his hand closed, open. Closed, open. 

“What’s his job?”

“He’s a psychiatrist.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he listens to people and he tries to help them.”

“With what?”

“Their problems. Fears, insecurities, sadness, jealousies, angers, everything. He listens and helps people figure out why they might feel the way they do, and a lot of times it can help them start to feel better.”

“Why?”

Will settled his head back against the headboard. “Sometimes… it’s because a person didn’t know _why_ they felt that way and it’s nice to figure it out. Sometimes it’s because they just needed someone to listen to them talk so they can get it all out of their system.”

“Does Hannibal listen to you?”

“He’s on vacation.” Will said, and lifted his head. “Are you telling me I need a psychiatrist?”

She didn’t reply, closing both of Will’s hands and then folding his arms over her waist like a belt. He craned to look down at her.

"You like him a lot, don't you?" 

She refused to be teased about it. 

“Yeah. He does art stuff with me.”

“I do art stuff with you.”

“Yeah but he does it better.”

Will laughed, tipping over on the bed and clutching at his heart in mock distress. “My own daughter.”

Abigail crawled out from under the duvet and perched next to Will on the mattress.

“He’ll come back, right?” She said.

Will looked up into his daughter’s earnest face, the pinch of her brow reminding him so much of her mother. 

“Looks like he doesn't have much choice.“

From under Will’s body on the bed, the abandoned tablet started bleating with the unmistakable tone of an incoming FaceTime call. Abigail shoved him over, ignoring his _oof_ , and pounced on it. 

“It’s Aunt Beverly!” 

She hit the “answer” button before Will could even open his mouth and the video feed loaded to show Beverly looking all put together, sitting against something blue. 

“Lo, he answers—“ Bev muttered, then her screen went from the dark of buffering to the morning light of Will’s bedroom and she brightened. “Hey, look, it’s Abs! What are you doing up so early?” 

“Nothing.” Abigail said. 

“Where’s your dad?”

“Right here.” She dismissed, with a loose wave towards Will still sprawled on the bed beside her. He raised an arm but she had crowded in closer to the screen like she was trying to see past Beverly’s shoulder. “Are you in Hannibal’s house?”

“Oh. Yeah. Check this out.” The screen froze for a millisecond and then the video switched to the rear camera. Will sat up to look, too, and then openly stared. 

The view was the grand, opulent stretch of the Florentine apartment's big room, the lush wallpaper interrupted by paintings taller than he was, the space full of rich furnishings, giant vases, suits of armor, a piano and a harpsichord, stone columns stretching up to an ornamented ceiling where chandeliers hung like heavy, glittering fruits. Abigail’s eyes grew wide and she unconsciously reached towards the grandiosity, her fingertips bumping the screen. 

“Whooooaaa. Hannibal lives _there_?”

The camera switched back to front-facing and Will didn't like the look on Beverly's face at all. 

“Abigail, have you _met_ Hannibal?”

“Yeah! He comes over all the time, he brought us apple roses and I lost my tooth in one! See? And today he’s—“

“Hey Abigail, could you go let the dogs out for me?” Will interrupted, grabbing the tablet and mashing it against his chest. 

“WILL?” It said. He smothered the speaker.

“What about Aunt—“

“The dogs need to pee and your Aunt probably needs to yell at your dad for a minute.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Abigail jumped down from the bed, looking betrayed, and stumped from the room.

“Check their food and water too please Abs!” 

“Fine!”

Will listened to her footsteps stomp down the stairs and the excited staccato of 28 sets of claws against the wooden floor of the kitchen, greeting Abby and crowding to be the first one out the back door. 

He lowered the tablet. Beverly’s eyebrows were almost to her hairline.

“You’d better fill me in right. Now.”

“Beverly—”

“ _Apple roses_ , Will? What even _are_ those?”

“They’re just—“

“Comes over? _All the time_?” 

“He’s just—“

“Will are you _romancing the man in my house_?” She practically yelled. Will toggled the volume down button and glanced towards the door, bringing his knees up. 

“Yeah scream a little louder they can’t quite hear you down the street.” He hissed. “I didn’t get your messages until Monday when I could replace my busted phone, and, uh...”

Beverly disappeared from frame and Will got a good look at Hannibal’s ornamented ceiling instead. There were a lot of vines and flowers involved. “Wiiiiiill oh my god please tell me you didn’t do exactly what I _told you not to do_.”

“How was I supposed to know, Bev? Of course you’re _always_ skipping the country without warning _two weeks before Christmas_ , I can’t believe it never crossed my mind!”

“Give me strength.”

“He let me stay, it turned out fine.”

She swung back into view. “ _Turned out_ fine? How the hell did it _start_?”

“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?“

“You could have _royally fucked me over_ , Will! He could have come storming home early and kicked me out, left a scathing review on HouseSwap, reported me and revoked my swapping rights, he could have _had you arrested_ for drunken disturbance—”

“Bev, stop. Stop. Clearly, it’s fine.”

She sat back. The blue chair in which she lounged seemed to vibrate off the back of Will’s retinas. 

“Apple roses.” She mused, narrowing her eyes. “You didn't answer my question.”

“You had a few.”

“Well it’s clear that Abigail likes him, and it sure seems that he more than just tolerates _you_. What’s your story?”

Will scratched at his cheek. He was surprised to realize that for a four-day acquaintanceship, it was quite a _long_ story. He remembered the initial panic when the swirling snow cleared to reveal the _not_ his sister in his sister's doorway, all sunken hollows and glinting eyes, then the contrasting rumpled softness he’d found the next morning; Hannibal’s crisp sleeves rolled past the elbow and Bev’s apron on, handling a sizzling skillet with easy panache; opening the door to Hannibal on his front porch and then the unbelievable portrait of Abigail that he’d produced in a blink; the metallic bite of winter air and the fresh smell of pine, Hannibal’s eyes watching him as Abigail made a case for a kiss; the soft smile and lingering gaze before Hannibal stepped off the front porch and into the cold night last night.

“He’s uh, nice enough.”

Thousands of miles sat between them but Beverly could still see right through him. A smile ruined the lines of her slack-jawed incredulity. 

“Holy _shit_ , Will. You _do_ like him.” 

“He’s a better neighbor than you are. Have you talked to him?”

“No, I called you early in the hopes that I could trick you into actually _answering_ by triggering your snooze-button finger.”

“You vixen.”

She widened her eyes at him in the tongueless equivalent of sticking out her tongue. “ _Minx_.”

Something buzzed further into the apartment, distorted by the limited range of the smartphone’s mic. Beverly stood up, the camera jostling, and Will watched what he could see of the apartment around her as she walked. 

“Popular, are you?”

“Nah. It’s just Dimmond.”

Will staggered, feeling like he’d missed several chapters and just learned about the pop quiz. “ _Just_ Dimmond?”

“Anthony to his friends.”

“Having a sordid affair in Florence? While you are so bold as to accuse _me_ of dicking around?”

Beverly rolled her eyes. “Rein it in, Will. Dimmond is one of Dr. Lecter’s colleagues, he speaks better Italian than I do, obviously, and he knows a lot about the nitty gritty here, you know? I’m seeing more of Italy than I would’ve on my own. We took a goddamn train to _Rome_ yesterday.”

“How was that?”

“Sketchy. Someone tried to pinch my wallet on the bus to the Coliseum. Would have, if Dimmond hadn’t seen it coming.” 

“That’s _textbook_.”

“Well, he has yet to bake me roses.” She reached the door and pushed the button to buzz Dimmond through.

“Please. Hannibal’s only “romantic” by the historical classification. I’m sure he’s used to highbrow social gatherings with food portions to fit on a pickle fork. I’m sure he _owns_ pickle forks.”

“He does.” Beverly said. He heard her purse and keys drag across a stone countertop. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not interested in forking pickles, if you know what I mean.”

“…I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, it was beautiful.” Bev agreed. “But really, Will, think about it. A steamy affair with a filthy rich Italian psychiatrist? Merry _Christmas_.”

“So charitable of you.”

“I’m only half kidding. You take such good care of Abby but sometimes I think you forget about yourself.”

“I’m fine.” Will said, as he heard a knock on Beverly’s end. 

“That’s my exit. Tell Abby that I miss her and we’ll talk more soon, okay? And be nice to Dr. Lecter. _Extra_ nice.”

Will’s mouth stretched into a colorless smile. “Aha ha.”

“Love you, big brother.”

Will’s cell phone started buzzing on the nightstand and he tipped his head to read the caller ID.

“Love you too.” He remembered to say, diving sideways to grab the call. It was Beverly’s house phone, while Beverly’s FaceTime call hung up in his lap. Hannibal calling. Will picked it up.

“Good morning. Need us to pick something up?” 

“Good morning, Will, not at all. I hope you’ll forgive the short notice, but I need to cancel our breakfast plans this morning.”

“Oh.” Will said. He was surprised at the strength of his own disappointment. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I just find myself feeling under the weather.”

“Sorry. We’ve been running you ragged the last couple of days, haven’t we.”

“I don’t place the blame anywhere near your camp, Will.” Hannibal said. “Please extend my apologies to your daughter, as well.”

“Yeah, alright. Feel better.”

“I will endeavor to.”

Will hung up, tossed the phone onto his pillow and rubbed his face, falling back onto the bed with a gusty sigh. His elbows stuck straight up in the air above him, a grave marker. He dropped his arms.

“Hey Abs?” He called.

“Coming!” She came thumping up the staircase and hesitated when she reached the doorway.

“Hannibal just called.” Will shared, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re eating breakfast here, he says he’s not feeling well.”

“Oh.” Abigail hooked her hands over the doorknob and set her chin on top of them. “Is that… bad?”

It occurred to him the picture he must be painting, lying bereft across the bed, and he sat up. 

“Ah, no. Your Aunt Bev wore me out, is all. She had to go but she says she misses you and she'll get to talk more later.”

Abigail climbed up onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. “Why did she need to yell at you?”

“Oh. I just— I didn’t tell her that we knew Hannibal.”

“Why?”

“Because… I met him on accident because I didn’t listen to her voice messages in time.”

“She didn’t want us to know Hannibal?”

“No, she— I just didn’t listen to her and Aunt Beverly doesn’t like it when people don’t listen.”

“Oh. Me neither.”

Will smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I know.”

Abigail looked thoughtful, half lying on the end of the bed. Will narrowed his eyes at her.

“What are you scheming?”

“We make a care package for Aunt Bev whenever she’s sick. Can we do one for Hannibal?”

Will thought about it. He thought about showing up on Hannibal’s doorstep uninvited for the second time, but then these circumstances would be much different. He thought about Hannibal bundled in his robe, a blanket around his shoulders for good measure, answering the door looking stuffed up and miserable; how his face might melt into a smile when he found them there with offerings of tea and soup and hand-drawn cards. Will hopped off the bed to grab yesterday’s shirt from the chair by the window. Abby jumped up, excited.

“I think it’s a great idea, Abs. Put some clothes on, we have to go get some lemons.”

  


* * *

  


The Volvo whispered up the drive and fell quiet, headlights going dark like a pair of closing eyes. Hannibal turned away from the bedroom window and shut his eyes, pulling a measured breath in through his lungs.

The worn stairs shushed under his stockinged feet. 

Corkie was standing in the hall, great big bat ears perked towards the front door. He glanced at Hannibal and ‘boof’ed.

“Yes, I am aware.” Hannibal told him. He could hear Abigail’s voice as the Grahams approached the front door, footsteps crunching on the snow.

_“I want to hold it!”_

_“Okay,_ okay _.”_ He heard Will chuckle _. “Watch out for ice on the sidewalk, Abby.”_

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“ _Hannibal!_ ” 

Hannibal stood with his hand on the doorknob, staring at his own reflection in the small scuffed mirror beside the stairs. He could feel the percussion of Abigail’s knuckles connecting with the green wood outside. It thrummed up his arm.

He shut his eyes. 

_“Is he okay? Why isn’t he answering?”_

_“He could be in bed.”_

_“Where’s the key? We could go inside and surprise him.”_

_“We don’t want to be rude, Abigail. We weren’t technically invited.”_

_“But_ Dad _.”_ Hannibal could hear a champion pout forming. _“I wanted to see him open the basket.”_

_“I know, sweetie.”_

_“Call him! Tell him we’re here but it’s a surprise.”_

Hannibal couldn’t help the small smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He glanced over at Corkie standing in the hall, his tail a patient pendulum swinging, waiting for him to cave. Hannibal's fingers tightened around the doorknob.

_“He might be sleeping, Abs. If he’s sick he needs his rest. You know how it is.”_

_“We could come back later, maybe he’ll be awake then?”_

_“Nah, we don’t want to keep bothering him. We can just leave the basket.”_

_“What if it snows?”_

_“He’ll find it before that. Come on.”_

Hannibal’s hand twisted the doorknob without his express consent. Guess he’d caved. Well, in for a penny.

Abigail was practically bursting with excitement, turning back at the sound of the door opening. “Hannibal! We brought—“ 

She caught her breath. Behind her, Will froze. 

"Hello, Grahams."

Hannibal knew what he looked like. He knew how dark his black eye was, knew about the hemorrhage that painted his sclera a blotchy red. He knew about the scab on his face, the swelling that had yet to go all the way down. He knew Will was expecting a runny nose, a cough and tired eyes. And while he hadn’t entirely _lied_ , Hannibal could see a touch of betrayal in the tightening of his jaw. 

Will picked Abigail up, stepped into the front foyer and shut the door behind them. 

“What happened.” He said.

“It looks worse than it —”

“Hannibal. _What happened_.” 

“An… attempted mugging on my walk home last night.”

"Have you _reported_ it?"

"Nothing was stolen, Will."

“You were attacked!”

“It’s just a few scratches.”

Will’s nostrils flared with his vehement disagreement and a muscle jumped in his jaw, working on biting down his rage so he didn’t spit it in front of Abigail. The righteous fire in his eyes sent a thrill down Hannibal’s spine.

“I’m alright.” He told him, soft. Will’s teeth ground as he fought his rebuttal, then he had to look away.

“Is this for me?” Hannibal said, hopping subjects as he reached for the basket that Abigail held. She let it go like she had forgotten about it entirely and Hannibal noticed for the first time that her bright turquoise eyes shone with tears. 

“Oh, Abigail.” He stroked her hair back from her ear, gentled his thumb across her cheek. A tear spilled and he smoothed it away, smiling at her in reassurance. In Will’s arms, she reached for Hannibal and he stepped forward, allowing her to loop her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder. He softly pet the back of her head and shushed, soothing. 

“It’s alright, _mieloji_. I’m alright.” 

"It's _not_ alright." Abigail lamented into his sweater, her arms hugging tighter as if afraid he might slip out of her grasp. Hannibal met Will's eyes over her shoulder. 

Will held his gaze for a moment, the fire in his eyes still burning, but then he gave a small huff and stepped in closer. His curls brushed Hannibal’s cheek. 

Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed them in, both Grahams tucked warm against his body. 

Something behind his ribs clicked securely into place and for a moment, Hannibal let himself feel it.

  


* * *

  


“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Will turned away from the window to lean against the sink, leveling his gaze at Hannibal across the kitchen. Outside, Abigail was running through snow that came up to her knees, trying to coax Corkie from his dry island of shoveled patio to come frolic with her in the freezing, dusty white. He wasn’t buying it. He wasn’t even looking at the price tag.

Hannibal calmly stirred the pot of broth he had simmering on the back of the stovetop.

“I told you I was feeling under the weather, a true statement. I simply neglected to impart more detail.”

“Just a bit.”

Hannibal tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and set it aside. “I had hoped to heal a few days before you saw me, just so this was less … jarring.” He said, indicating his hemorrhaged eye. The bruised skin around it made him look older, haggard. Will swallowed around a rising sense of guilt. 

“Manchester hasn’t exactly proven the oasis of recovery advertised.”

“A temporary setback in an otherwise incomparable, restorative holiday.”

“I envy your relentless optimism.” 

Hannibal half-shrugged. “It is a practice of letting go. What happens, happens. I choose to assume the role of the victor, not the victim.”

Will nodded, a muscle jumping in his jaw, then he couldn’t look at him anymore and lowered his gaze to the floor. Hannibal crossed the kitchen to stand in front of him.

“I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t want you to worry about me.” He said, quiet. Will looked up. The pure, crisp light reflected off the snow made Hannibal’s irises glow like amber. It was almost unnerving contrasted with the depthless, blunt red of his traumatized sclera. 

“I should’ve driven you home.” Will murmured. 

“I chose to walk.” Hannibal parried. “Let go of the guilt you feel.”

“It’s as pernicious as it is irrational.” 

Hannibal looked between his eyes, unreadable as ever, if not more so with half of his face tenderized. Yet still, somehow, he was prim and put together. Will wondered what planet he was from.

The back door crashed open and Corkie skittered in ahead of Abigail, her nose and cheeks bright pink from the cold, snow clinging to the fake fur trim on her wet boots. 

“Dad when are we leaving for Baltimore?”

Will stepped around Hannibal to help Abby beat the snow from the bottom of her coat before shutting the back door. 

“Hannibal’s appointment isn’t until two, so we’ll leave around one-fifteen.”

“What time is it now?”

“Just after ten.”

“I want to go get my backpack from the car.”

“Okay.” Will said, pulling the car keys from his pocket and setting them on her hands. “Your mittens are soaking wet.”

“Be right back!” She called over her shoulder, already scampering for the front door. Will stood from his crouch, feeling Hannibal’s eyes on him. 

“She’ll probably just keep you there when she sees you, protect you from us inept ruffians.” Will said, referring to the blonde woman, the ridiculously polished psychiatrist in her termite mound of a house.

Hannibal smirked to himself, once again stirring the pot on the stovetop. “She knows better.”

Will lingered there in the kitchen for a moment, glad when Abby’s return gave him an excuse to leave the room. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Bedelia "Cockblock" Du Maurier haha Will you DAMN FOOL
> 
>  _"Mieloji"_ is a Lithuanian term of endearment meaning "cookie". It's an almost-silent j.
> 
> In case it wasn't already obvious, the crash victim is Hannibal's mugger, and the 'accident' was definitely not that. What's in that broth, Hannibal?


	9. Meduoliniai Grybukai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly is haunted by those from which she wished to escape, and Hannibal has some tips on nightmare prevention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title isn't keymashing, it's a Lithuanian Christmas cookie that's shaped like a mushroom. Keep reading. ;)
> 
> Also, **trigger warning** for a graphic car crash situation as Will recounts the manner of his widowing.

_Zz-zz. Zz-zz. Zz-zz._

The bedsheets groaned and shifted and a hand emerged, slapping down on top of the vibrating cell phone on the nightstand. Beverly turned her face out of the burrow of her pillows and squinted at the caller ID.

**Z**

“Ugh, _why_.” She kicked her way to sitting and tossed her hair back from her face, sliding to answer. “What do you want?”

“Hey Beverly.” Zeller’s voice said, slow and stuffy. 

“Are you drunk?”

“No." He sniffed prolifically.

"Are you _crying_?"

"Listen, can I come over?”

“What?”

“Bev, I really need to talk to you.”

She snorted, incredulous. Of course this was happening. “Tough luck, buddy, I’m not home.”

“I can wait for you there, please, Bev.”

“Zeller, I’m not even in the _country_ right now. It’s going to be a hell of a long wait.”

“…What?”

“I’m in Florence.”

“Italy?”

“That’s the one.”

There was a lengthy pause, then a dubious laugh. “No, it’s almost Christmas.”

“Yeah, well!“ Beverly let out a gusty sigh, sagging back against the pillows. In the darkness of Hannibal’s Florentine bedroom, an entire ocean sitting between her and this bane of her existence, she decided to spill.

“Brian, look. You wrecked me, the night of the holiday party. I don’t care if you meant to or not, you did, and I went and did something rash because I’m not over you and I want to be. I _need_ to be, Brian. This can’t continue, my puppy-dogging at your heels waiting to be thrown a bone. You’ve moved on and I—“

“I _haven’t_.” Zeller interrupted. “I haven’t, Bev, that’s why I wanted to—”

Bev cut him off by abruptly ending the call and barely resisted the urge to throw her phone across the room. 

“Why won’t you just _leave me alone?_ ” She yelled at the screen, then dropped her phone onto the bed and covered her face, tears stinging her eyes. "Just let me forget, you _asshole_.” She groaned.

Her phone started buzzing again, half buried in the duvet. It stopped after only two rings and Beverly grabbed it, staring at the missed call notification while an unpleasant thought drifted in.

He hadn't believed her, had he. What if he tried showing up at her cottage? The last thing she needed was another emotionally crippled man banging on her front door and ruining Dr. Lecter's vacation. The poor man just wanted some peace and fucking quiet, not another goddamn soap opera episode. What a circus she'd dropped him in.

She glanced at the time. 1AM local, which meant… 7PM back home. She dialed the cottage landline.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, and Beverly’s foot jiggled under the sheets with nervous energy. The line clicked through but instead of Dr. Lecter she got her own voice from her answering machine. She hung up.

“Shit.”

She chewed a nail and dialed Will.

_Ring_

_Ring_

_R—_

“Ciao Bella.”

“Hey. How are things?”

“They’re… things. Isn’t it dark o’clock over there? Are you okay?”

“Mostly. Zeller just called.”

“What? Why? What the hell did he want?"

“He sounded strange. He said he wanted to come over and talk.”

“Bully for him.”

“Yeah but I don’t think he took me all that seriously when I said I was overseas.”

“What, the week before Christmas? Suddenly, and without warning? Can’t imagine why.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You're worried he's going to show up."

“Yeah. I tried calling the cottage to warn Dr. Lecter but no one answered. Is he with you?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen.”

Beverly pressed the heel of her palm to her brow, relieved. “Good. Can I talk at him really quick?”

“Please hold.”

Bev listened to Will navigate the house, sidestepping dogs and crossing into the kitchen. There was low Christmas music playing and she could hear Abigail talking in the background. 

“Phone call for Dr. Lecter? Is there a Dr. Lecter here?” Will said, the receiver twisted away from his mouth. Bev rolled her eyes and then the phone was exchanging hands. 

“Hello Ms. Katz. How is Italy treating you?”

With a flash of surprise, Beverly realized that this was the first time she had actually _spoken_ to Dr. Lecter outside of written word. She had imagined for him an Italian accent but that’s definitely not what greeted her at the other end of the line. The voice sounded more northern European, deeper and oakier than she'd thought, a warm and dry baritone like ground pepper. It threw her for a second.

“Uh— It’s wonderful, Dr. Lecter, I can’t thank you enough. It’s just what I needed.”

“Good. The sentiment is mutual.”

“That's good to hear. So listen, I just got a strange phone call from an ex and I’m not sure, but he might show up at the cottage. Is Corkie with you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay perfect. Maybe just stay at Will’s for a while and let the cottage sit dark and empty.”

“Thank you for the warning, Ms. Katz. I could always send the intruder packing, I hear I’m quite the thing to discover unexpectedly in your house.”

“God.” She muttered, under her breath. “No, it’s not worth it. You’re on vacation and you’ve already dealt with one too many idiots banging on your door. Sorry about that.”

“Not at all.”

“You know, I hate even bothering you with this. I hope everything else has been wonderful for you so far. Is Corkie being a good boy?”

“He’s a perfect little gentleman.”

“Is _Will_ being a good boy?”

“He, too, has been a perfect little gentleman.”

“Watch it.” She heard in the background. A shrill beeping struck up, followed by an excited shout from Abigail.

“ _THE MUSHROOMS!_ ”

“That’s the cookies, I’m afraid.” Hannibal said into the phone. “Very nice speaking with you, Ms. Katz.”

“Themushroomsthe _mushrooms!_ ” Abby was urging, her voice closer, and Hannibal’s reassurance was lost amidst the noise and the confusion of the phone once again exchanging hands. The beeping of the kitchen timer faded as the phone was carried from the room.

“Sorry. Hannibal’s sharing an old family recipe for Christmas cookies.” Will said.

“Where’s he from, do you know?" Bev said. "He doesn’t sound Italian.”

“Lithuania.” 

“Wow. I wish I could see it over there, Will. It sounds very… domestic.”

“Don’t start, Bev.” Will said. “It’s just a novelty to have a guest over all the time, let alone a world-class chef and a classically trained artist. Abigail’s beside herself.”

“Certainly seemed that way. So you don't mind keeping him there for tonight? I’d feel better.”

“Yeah, sure." Will said. "Though Bev, Hannibal’s right, we could camp out over there and send Zeller—”

“No, there’s no guarantee he’ll show up.” She interrupted. “It’s just a huge waste of time all around. Stay there, have fun.”

“Okay. I’ll go dust out the guest room.”

She smirked up at the ceiling. “Or, you know, don’t.”

“Beverly.”

She just laughed. “Thanks, Will. Have a good night. Send me pictures so I don’t have to think about Asswipe McGee.”

"Got it. Love you."

“Love you.” 

  


Will hung up and stepped back into the kitchen, where Hannibal and Abigail were carefully transferring the parchment paper sheets of cookies onto cooling racks. 

“Dad come see.”

Will leaned into the warm, spiced air around the two bakers. 

“These are the tops and these are the bottoms.” Abby told him, pointing them out. Hannibal was using a paring knife to carve a little divot in the underside of one of the caps. The cookie was beautifully golden on the bottom.

“Mmm.” Will said, and pressed a kiss to Abby’s hair. “I’m going to go tidy the guest room, okay?”

Abigail turned to look up at him with wide eyes.

“Is Hannibal staying with us?”

“Nah I just really miss vacuuming.”

“ _Dad_.”

“It’s an option available to him, yes.” Will acknowledged, stroking Abby’s hair. They both looked up at Hannibal.

“Are you staying with us?” Abby said, clasping her hands together hopefully.

Hannibal looked between the two of them; two nearly identical pairs of big blue eyes watching him, waiting. He smiled, conscious of the way it pinched his black eye. The red on his sclera, at least, had reduced to a smaller spot that hugged close to his iris. 

“How could I refuse.”

  


* * *

  


Beverly came back from the bathroom to her phone screen lit up, displaying another incoming text message queued up behind an entire list. There was a picture attached to every one. As she reached for the phone and curled up onto the bed, _another_ message came in. 

“Jesus, Will, not the whole camera roll.” Beverly mumbled, but she was chewing on a smirk. The pictures took a minute to load in but then she was scrolling through a series of shitty selfies featuring Will and the Graham household vacuum cleaner: opening the front closet like the vacuum was Publisher’s Clearing House arrived with a $5k check; hauling the vacuum up the stairs under one arm like a scolded child; two extremely blurred photos taken during the vacuuming process and then Will's dumb face next to the lint trap, giving a thumbs-up. 

Beverly’s eyes welled with tears. She pulled up the keyboard.

_You’re a twit._ She typed. _You’re the best stupid idiot brother in the world_ , she meant. 

The typing bubble popped up at the bottom of the screen, went away, and then another picture slid into the messages. It was a terrible taxidermy fox whose face looked absolutely scandalized, and Beverly burst out laughing. When she could look at her phone again, there was a short text followed by more photos. She wiped her eyes.

_There is no pleasing you_ Will had said. The new pictures, just two of them, were of Abigail. In the first one she stood with her arms stretched out in front of her, a dozen origami butterflies with marker-colored wings arranged on the sleeves of her sweater. In the second, she was at the kitchen table and smiling her new missing-tooth grin while proudly flourishing two mushroom-shaped cookies, the tops of the caps still oozing fresh icing, translucent and shiny. In the background Beverly could see unfamiliar arms, lean and tan, sweater sleeves rolled up past the elbows. She zoomed in on them. 

She still didn’t know what Dr. Lecter looked like. Must be somewhat easy on the eyes, if Will seemed to think him so far out of his league. Maybe Anthony had some pictures that she could wheedle out of him.

Beverly set her phone background to Abigail with the mushroom cookies and smiled at the lock screen for a moment, then took a screenshot and sent it back to Will. 

_Well pleased. Thanks, Will. Miss you both._

  


* * *

  


Will thumped a stack of spare blankets on the desk in the guest room and took one last look around. The bed was turned down, the floor had been vacuumed, he’d even dusted what he could with the hose attachment. There was still a stack of boxes in the corner, but those were just going to have to be there. This was as good as it was going to get. 

It was unusually quiet when he came back downstairs, and only the light above the stove was still on in the kitchen. The finished cookies, _meduoliniai grybukai_ as Hannibal had called them, mushroom cookies to those who had no hope of correctly pronouncing that, were in a bowl on the countertop. Will took one with him as he walked through to the living room. 

He found Hannibal seated on the end of the sofa, a book open in his lap, quietly reading to Abigail and, as it happened, Corkie. He didn’t appear to have noticed that Abby was fast asleep against his arm. He raised his head when Will walked in and Will indicated Abigail with just a pointed glance. Hannibal looked down at her. She hadn’t stirred, despite the long pause in Hannibal’s reading.

“You’re my hero.” Will mouthed as he scooped her gently from the couch and hugged her close. Corkie jumped down and followed the Grahams up the stairs. 

Not even five minutes later, Will was back.

"She's really out. What'd you give her?" He joined Hannibal on the sofa and Hannibal closed the book to reveal the cover. _Walden_ , it said, in gold letters embossed on the green leather. 

"A dose of Thoreau." 

"She hasn't conked out so painlessly in months." 

Hannibal held the book out to him. "You've found your new constant." 

Will snorted. "The enchantment dies if dad tries to read it. This could've been a CVS receipt and she would've wanted you to read it to her." 

Hannibal smiled, growing thoughtful. 

"What causes her to dally?"

"She started having nightmares a few months back. Not just bad dreams. Night terrors. She'd wake us both up screaming." 

"This happens often?"

"Frequently enough to avert her from bedtime."

"Does she tell you about them?" 

"Sometimes." Will rubbed at the scruff of his chin, his stare on some distant horror unknown to Hannibal. In the space left for him to elaborate there was only silence. 

"Their focus troubles you." Hannibal observed. Will shifted on the sofa, preparing to step into uncomfortable territory.

"Her mother died in a car accident when she was two." He said. "That's all she knows. That's all I _want_ her to know."

"A misdirection?"

"Just abridged." Will said. "Heavily. But her nightmares... the ones she’s told me. Somehow, I think she knows." 

Lucy entered the room from the kitchen and made her way over to Will, hopping up onto the sofa and curling up beside him. He laid his hand on her blonde fur. Her gesture of support seemed to bolster him.

“Molly traveled sometimes, for work. She didn’t like to once Abigail was in the picture, but she loved the job and they didn’t want to lose her, so.” Will distracted himself by combing rows in Lucy’s fur with his fingers. “Her flight had already been delayed because of weather and she said she just wanted to get home, snow was nothing she hadn’t braved before. It was a _blizzard_ , and it was pushing midnight when a semi jackknifed in front of her, and her, uh… her car went under the trailer.” 

Hannibal watched Will’s fingers, gentle and rhythmic on Lucy’s flank, and imagined the phone call or the knock on the door that had brought Will’s life crashing down around him. He could see Abigail, so young and small, sitting on Will’s lap while he stared, numb, towards a flower-littered casket at the head of a room. 

“Abby’s nightmares are often car accidents. She’s never been in one, and she doesn’t know why mommy’s funeral wasn’t an open casket. But she’s told me about… about headless drivers and cars sheared in half and semi trailers with knives and there’s glass and blood everywhere, and I don’t know if it was something she heard at school, kids seem to like to spread dirt as much as they like to play in it, but it can’t be coincidental. And it makes me mad, because when it started it really messed her up. She didn’t want me to drive anywhere, she’d get really upset.”

“She dreams of losing you the way she lost her mother.”

Will nodded. “She was so young when Molly died. It was really hard for her to understand, for a while, that mom was never coming home. Sometimes I think she’s still waiting for it, like there’s a hole in this house that’ll never close, letting in the cold.”

Hannibal’s head tipped a tiny margin. 

“I see that chill touch you, Will. I do not see it on Abigail."

"What?"

Hannibal sat forward on the couch. “Any memories that Abigail has of her mother are by now clouded by the dust of age, or glossy with the veneer of another’s perspective, distorted through a lens outside of her own. When she dreams of losing family she dreams of losing _you_ , because _you_ are what she knows. She has lived two thirds of her life with a single father.“

“Yeah it’s not a very stable foundation. I’m balancing two people on one leg here.”

“You have two legs, Will.”

“That’s not what it feels like.”

“So rarely does, does it.”

A flicker of recollection sparked and then some of the weight on Will’s shoulders appeared to ease. Of all people, Hannibal would know exactly what it felt like, trying to keep strong and rebuild a life shattered by loss for the sake of another. Their hearts beat with matching scars. 

“That’s right, your sister. Uh.”

Hannibal’s smile was tinted with melancholy. “Her name was Mischa.”

“…Was?”

"She died, many years ago." 

Will looked between Hannibal's eyes, solemn. 

"You live your life for her." He said.

Hannibal didn't answer. His gaze felt too keen, easily taking the magnifying glass in Will’s metaphorical hand and turning it on him, gathering threads from the frayed mess of Will's mind to add to a tapestry of guessed and given history. He had a guard that was permanently up, an uncrackable shell, a habit of constant deflection and redirection. Despite the frustration of it, Will could hardly fault him for it. 

He rubbed at his thigh, an unconscious tic that signaled his intention to stand and remove himself from scrutiny. Hannibal’s gaze fell to the motion. 

“Have you tried pressure points?” He said.

Will hadn’t even gotten his feet under him yet. “What?”

“Abigail’s nightmares.” Hannibal clarified, holding out his hand. “Fear of the nightmare may be what calls it forth, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Activating pressure points might help to balance her mind, draw her focus away from her anxieties and create a safer space in which to drift off.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting. A shade chary about it, Will gave him his hand. He watched as Hannibal’s fingers searched out a notch at the crease of his inner wrist, opposite his thumb. Finding it, he pressed in. 

It was like there had been a buzzing between Will’s eyes that he hadn’t been aware of until it was gone. In it absence he felt… reassured. Hannibal was watching him, his thumb a firm pressure in the hollow of his wrist.

“Feel it?” He said.

“What _is_ that?” 

Hannibal smiled. “ ‘Spirit gate’.” He said. “Believed to quiet the mind. It’s a small hollow in the junction of the wrist, below the pinky. Feel.”

Will pressed his thumb where Hannibal indicated. “You just Vulcan nerve-pinched Abby asleep, didn’t you. Show me that one.”

“I’m not familiar. Your foot.” Hannibal said, encouraging Will to bring his leg up across his lap. Will obliged, dislodging Lucy in the process. With deft fingers Hannibal located a small divot just above the middle of Will's sole and pressed into it. Will felt it this time as a warm and comfortable presence between his shoulder blades, leeching tension from the surrounding muscles. He sank further against the couch. 

“ ‘Bubbling spring’.” Hannibal was saying. He spread his other fingers clear of Will’s foot, his thumb still in place to demonstrate the approximate location. “Similarly, a small hollow, short of the center of the sole. Believed to ground your energy and induce sleep.”

“Strange naming convention.” 

“Based in ancient Chinese medicine.” Hannibal said. He added his other thumb and then pushed up and outwards, dispersing the pressure across the ball of Will’s foot before removing his hands. He looked up when Will made a small noise of dissent, not entirely voluntary.

“You could just keep doing that.” Will told him. His body was buzzing pleasantly.

“One more location, if you’ll permit me to demonstrate. Where the neck muscles attach to the base of the skull.” 

With some effort, Will peeled himself out of the couch in order to face his back to Hannibal. He was expecting touch, but he wasn’t expecting Hannibal’s fingers to push up into his hair like they did. He shivered and closed his eyes, feeling Hannibal press his thumbs to the right place, rendering all thoughts inconsequential and placing him in a center of calm. He swayed; Hannibal kept him steady. He felt like jelly, equal parts heavy and lightweight, as if suspended in water. 

“What’s this one, ‘Sky Mall’?” He mumbled. Hannibal’s laugh was just a quiet rumble in his chest.

“ ‘Wind pool’.” He told him, and the dry warmth of his baritone seemed to come from everywhere at once, wrapped around Will. Goosebumps sprouted on his arms. Hannibal’s hands were the only thing keeping his head upright anymore; if he let go, Will would probably just collapse into a boneless heap on the sofa. Until then, he reveled in the novelty of existing purely in the support of another, relinquishing control and trusting Hannibal wouldn’t let him fall.

He didn’t know how long they sat like that. He didn’t care. He would have been happy to float in untroubled static forever. Eventually, though, Hannibal’s fingers slipped from the soft coils of his hair, slow enough to let him readjust onto the support of his own neck. 

His eyes came open with reluctance. 

“Just a thought.” Hannibal said, behind him. The notion of relaxing back against his chest hovered at the back of Will’s mind, too appealing for his liking. He shook it away. Shook it all away, coming back into himself like the familiar and constricting embrace of a straightjacket. He sat back, feeling suddenly drained. 

“Well. I hope you weren’t anticipating any sort of lengthy conversation.”

Hannibal returned to the other end of the sofa. "I harbor no expectations regarding your hospitality. You are gracious enough to host me."

"You always know what to say." Will murmured, his eyes closed. 

"Not always." Hannibal said, soft. Will turned his head, observing him by the firelight. His black eye looked very dark. Shadows cut stark and harsh across his face, a face that Will knew could be so gentle and kind, and he just watched him for a while, lost in recent memories of wavy smiles. He looked away when he realized he was staring at Hannibal's lips with sleepy eyes. 

"I need to let the dogs out before I turn in." He sighed, making as if to stand up. He didn't actually gain any altitude but sat, instead, with his heavy eyelids closed on the back end of a blink. 

“Would you like me to take care of it?” Hannibal's voice floated past Will's fading consciousness and he opened his eyes with a twitch. Hannibal was standing in front of him. 

“No, uh.” 

Hannibal just smiled and held out a hand. Will took it, allowing Hannibal to pry him up off of the couch. He wavered a bit on his feet and steadied himself against Hannibal's body, a pleasantly warm and solid presence. His sweater smelled comfortably of wool. Will was losing his goddamn mind. 

“Thanks.” He said shortly, stepping away. “The guest room’s all made up, I left a washcloth and spare toothbrush in the hallway bathroom for you. There are extra blankets on the desk if you get cold.” 

“Thank you, Will.”

Will nodded and whistled to the dogs, removing himself to the kitchen as furry bodies converged from all over the house. Hannibal watched him go, still feeling the shape of Will’s hand where it had touched his chest. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))
> 
> This is the [ taxidermy fox](http://www.montanaoutdoor.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/bad-taxidermy-slow-fox.jpg) picture that Will sent to Beverly ;)
> 
> And no, I don't hate Molly Graham, I LOVE Molly Graham, I just felt that if a car crash was going to be the manner of her passing it had to be something she couldn't fight back on. Sorry, Molly.


	10. Shortbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snowy day in Manchester. Meanwhile, Beverly hosts an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one-week anniversary to Hannibal and Will :))

Winston was waiting by the bedside when Will rolled over, still sunken into the depths of his bedding and peering out, reluctant, at waking reality. Will's half-open eyes met Winston’s expectant gaze and the dog's tail gave a hopeful wag. Will dug himself out of bed with a resigned sigh, knowing his fate was sealed. Winston wasn’t going to let him sleep in now.

He was too warm from the cocoon of sleep to bother putting on long sleeves and trudged, yawning, to the stairs in his grey t-shirt and blue plaid pants. His bare feet made no sound on the carpeted staircase but Winston, running ahead, clicked like a spastic tap dancer across the wooden floor of the front hall until he disappeared into the kitchen beyond. The house smelled like coffee and something to do with fried eggs.

Hannibal was at the stove tending to a heavy skillet while Abigail was up on her knees on the bench, leaned over the kitchen table, her elbows propped on an unfinished drawing.

“…tried to do waffles and burned them, every one, we fed them to the dogs and went to a diner instead. Right dad?” 

“Don’t you have any dad- _can_ -cook stories?” Will said, holding out his arm. Abby, glad to accept the invitation, jumped down to hug her dad tight around the waist. He picked her up so he could better hug her back. “Good morning, scamp. How long have you been up?”

“I’ve been drawing.”

“That’s… an answer, but not to my question.” 

“We got up at six.” Hannibal chimed in, and Will leaned in to spy on what it was he was cooking. Hannibal smiled and took advantage of his proximity, kissing him softly on the temple. Will hummed and met his lips in a lingering good morning.

From where she sat at his hip, Abigail touched Will’s cheek. For some reason her hand was wet. She kept patting his face: his cheek, his temple, smearing the dampness on his skin—

  


Will jerked awake, reeling back from Charlie who stood at the side of the bed licking his face. The ginger dog wuffed with more air than voice and put his front paws on the mattress, seeking more real estate to continue to slobber. Will shoved him away.

“Stop, I’m up.” He protested, scraping at his cheek. Charlie acquiesced and left the room, his wagging tail thumping as it hit the bedroom door. 

Will folded the covers down from his chest and stared up at the ceiling. Scraps of the dream still lingered, blessedly starting to fade. He reviewed what remained with a sense of shame slowly replacing the contentment he’d felt in the dream. Somehow, it seemed like a violation: an insult and an imposition on the character of Doctor Lecter while the real man was in the house somewhere, blissfully unburdened by a misguided subconscious. _Very_ misguided. 

But it was just a dream. Dreams didn’t follow any rules. They didn’t often make sense and didn’t have to mean anything. He could be out here dream-kissing his boss or the old lady down the street and it wouldn't make any difference. 

The bedside clock told him it was already seven AM. Will could smell that the coffee maker had run on schedule, it was _he_ that was running an hour late. He got up to wash the dog slobber from his pillow-creased face and released the last threads of the dream into disregarded oblivion.

  
  


Will could guess where Hannibal was before he saw him. From the staircase he could see Titan and Weegee on the window seat in the living room, watching intently in the direction of the Christmas tree. When Will came around the wall it was to find Hannibal sitting on the floor in front of the tree, a small sketchbook open on his knee. Janice and Corkie were lounging beside him and they both looked up when Will walked in.

“What’s captured your attention, the coffee table?”

Hannibal just smiled down at his drawing, unfazed. Will was too far away to see what it was, but it was comforting to watch him; his pencil moving as if by muscle memory alone, clearly finding peace in the practice. He put a few more small but deliberate marks on the page and then closed the sketchbook, taking his time in placing the elastic band so it wasn’t twisted, and securing his pencil beneath it. 

“It has some very alluring angles.” He replied, finally looking up. Will was leaning against the back of the sofa, watching him. 

“How long have you been up?”

“Since six thirty.”

“Sitting there?”

Hannibal considered, then shrugged a loose affirmative. Will came around the sofa to offer a hand and raised his eyebrows when Hannibal looked up at him quizzically.

“We’ve done this before. I can help you up or you can hobble your way to standing.”

Hannibal’s hand was cool and dry against Will’s as he hauled Hannibal out of his cross-legged position on the floor. They both heard his hips and knees pop and he groaned as his stagnant muscles burned at the adjustment.

“I don’t know why you keep forgetting that we have furniture.” Will said. Hannibal took it with good grace and trailed Will into the kitchen, almost tripping over Buster who came zipping under his legs in a bid to be the first one to the back door. On autopilot, Will insinuated himself into the crowd of gathered dogs, flipped the door lock and went to haul the slider open, but it made a constipated crunching noise and didn’t budge. 

“Great.” Will braced and wiggled the door, trying to crack the ice loose. Winston, feeling helpful, began licking condensation from the glass. Finally, with a determined heave, Will broke the ice and the door flew open, releasing the eager dogs into the snowy morning outside.

And snowy it was. 

Great big fluffy flakes, like torn cotton balls, fell silently onto the drifts and valleys of the preexisting snow. The cloud cover was so dense that any light from the rising sun was reduced to a dull, diffused grey. A gentle but frigid gust swirled snow into an eddy that dashed itself against the house, breezing flakes into the kitchen and Will, standing in a t-shirt and with bare feet, shivered and slid the door shut.

“Forecast said seven more inches.” He said, watching Corkie vacillate on the small patch of patio that was blown clear of snow while beyond, the other dogs plowed through the drifts, chasing each other and snapping at the falling snow. “Happy first day of winter.”

Hannibal set his sketchbook on the edge of the kitchen table and joined him at the door, hands in his pockets. They both lifted their gaze to watch the snow coming down in fitful, driving swaths: mesmerizing, the aftermath of a pillow factory erupted. 

“The shortest day of the year.” Hannibal said. “The Winter Solstice: the mark of the sun’s return.”

Will snorted and abandoned his post in favor of the coffee maker. “You wouldn’t know it. Sandwiched between the clouds and permafrost until May.” He pulled another mug from the cabinet and held it out, a nonverbal question. Hannibal nodded.

The carafe jostled out of its port. Will took a sip of his coffee black while he poured the second mug. Hannibal was right there to accept it. 

“How’d you sleep?” Will said, adding sugar to his coffee. The spoon made a bright tinking noise against the ceramic. 

"It was a restful night." 

“Mm. Mild. Thanks."

Hannibal glanced at him sideways. 

"That mattress is thin and wooden." Will reminded him. “Probably too short, too.”

"It served." 

Will took a skeptical sip of coffee.

“What?”

"Don't ever let me catch you with your polite untucked." 

A squeaking scratching noise struck up from the direction of the back door and they turned to find Corkie begging to return to the warm indoors, his paws leaving wet streaks on the glass. Hannibal made as if to grant him that wish but Will deftly cut him off.

"Wait." He said, then kept on down the hallway. He came back with a stack of patchy towels and arranged them on the floor in front of the door. “Here comes the cavalry." 

He leaned out the door and gave a short, shrill whistle, gesturing the dogs inside with a jerk of his head. They all came bounding across the yard and piled into the kitchen, blasting snow all over the towels, circling Will and hitting every nearby object with their swinging tails. Will sat down in the middle of them and used the rattiest towel to wipe down all the snowy coats he could reach. Buster and Titan scampered off into the living room, leaving a trail of wet paw prints and prompting a mass exodus of the dogs. Will managed to grab Weegee before he stampeded off with the others. There were still small snowballs clinging to his curly fur. 

“I haven’t heard the plows come through yet.” Will said, working to pinch the little clods free. Weegee squirmed in his lap. “We’ll drive you back to the cottage once they do.”

“It’s no trouble to walk it.”

“It’s almost waist-deep in places.” Will said. “And he might not look it, but Corkie can hold a mean grudge.” He allowed Weegee’s paws to gain purchase on the floor and watched the dog run off, leaving him alone on the towels, surrounded by melting snow. There were wet spots dark on his worn grey shirt and the legs of his pajama pants. Something moved in the doorway to the front foyer and diverted his attention. He held out his hands.

“Good morning. Help your dear old dad?” 

Abigail stepped into the kitchen but came no closer than Hannibal stood. She lifted one foot to show Will her socks. They were dark blue with little stars on them.

“I don’t want wet feet.”

Will heaved an exaggerated, mournful sigh. “And so, he wallowed away in soggy isolation, unmourned by those he called his family…”

“Dad.”

“No, no, don’t mind me.” Will continued, getting to his feet and scraping the towels into a loose, damp bundle on the floor. He used them to mop up the little paw-sized puddles heading off across linoleum. “Fed and clothed, housed and cared for, all for naught at the possibility of wet feet…” He scooted off, his voice fading as he went to deposit the towels back in the laundry room down the hall. Abby looked up at Hannibal beside her.

“Does it snow in Italy?” She said.

“It did this year, but it is a very rare phenomenon in Florence.”

“You should build a snowman with us! Dad, Hannibal should build a snowman with us.” Abby informed him as he came back into the kitchen. Will held his arms open and Abby took the invitation, allowing him to pick her up into a hug. 

“Building a snowman is heavy work. We have to remember that Hannibal’s still recovering.”

“Yeah.” Abby conceded, looking at the dark crescent under Hannibal’s eye, the lingering evidence of his mugging. Hannibal smiled at her, gentle.

“You and I can build a snowman.” Will was saying. “I’m sure we’ll get plenty of material when we clear off the car.”

“Can we make it as big as the house?”

“Do you think we can?”

“Yeah!”

“Mmhmm. Better call Guinness.” Will said, setting her back on her feet. “Dad’s got ‘Record Number of Muscles Pulled by Suggestion Alone’ in the bag.”

“What does that mean?”

Will met Hannibal’s eyes for a second. They were both biting the insides of their cheeks.

“It means let’s get dressed, eat something, and then break out the shovels.” Will told her.

  
  


Armored in snow boots, parkas, hats and scarves, Abby and Will stepped out onto the pristine snow of the front porch like two Armstrongs setting foot on the moon. Hannibal brought up the rear, decked out in a borrowed scarf and ear muffs in addition to his wool coat, and they all stood on the edge of the front step with shovels in hand, staring towards the car. 

There was no car, in the visible sense. A huge white mound sat like a mountain at the side of the house, a laughably enormous drift that had swallowed the Volvo whole. The three of them exchanged glances. 

  
  


Eight dogs burst out of the front door like a starting gate and leapt into the snow of the yard, leaving great jagged furrows in the white. Their leashes pulled taut and brought them up short while Will made sure the front door was locked.

“Walkies in a winter wonderland.” He announced, and he set off with Hannibal and Abigail across the yard, the three dragged along by the Eager Eight Canine Division. 

Or, more accurately, seven. Corkie picked his way distastefully through the boiled wake of the larger dogs, trying to match the optimism of the pack but only managing to remember a cursory tail wag here and there as he struggled to touch as little snow as possible. Hannibal and Will watched this for a while, amused, and then Hannibal took pity and picked the little dog up to carry him instead. 

A few blocks down the road, they were forced to detour into the snow off of the street as the hulking yellow figure of the snow plow rounded the corner up ahead, the wedge of its shovel pushing so much snow off of the road that it prompted little avalanches down onto some of the cleared sidewalks. Will waved to the driver, barely visible behind the smear of his wiper blades. Blue salt skittered onto the road in his wake. 

The lane that led up to Beverly’s gate wasn’t wide enough for the conventional plow to go through. For a moment they stood in the tire treads of the last plowed road before the lane and just gazed towards the cottage. The snow was still falling thick around them and the silence seemed other-worldly. A small flock of juncos flew over the cottage and disappeared into the tops of the evergreens overhead. In Hannibal’s arms, Corkie looked up at them: Will was standing right at Hannibal’s shoulder, and every visible breath that left them rose and intermingled before dissipating above their heads. 

“See anyone frozen to the front stoop?”

Hannibal spent a moment silently assessing from their vantage point, then shook his head. “If he was smart, he’d’ve gone, or broken in, when the snow began.”

“If he was _smart_ , he wouldn’t be a problem in the first place.” Will muttered. “How are they doing?” He called over to Abby, who was standing under an overhanging evergreen bough on the almost-naked curb across the street. The tree had sheltered a wide swath of its base and left an oblong stretch of the ground free of snow. Buster, Weegee, and Lucy were sniffing in the pine needles around her feet. 

“Fine.” She called back, and looked both ways before scurrying back over to their side. “It’s like an island over there.”

“Yeah.” Will agreed, and adjusted the leashes in his grip. “I’ll go first with the horses here and you and Hannibal can follow in the path we make, okay?”

“Yeah.”

When Will reached the cottage gate, he peered over into the yard and then unlooped the four leashes from his wrist, holding them out to Hannibal. 

“It’s drifted on the wrong side, we won't be able to get the gate open.” 

Hannibal let Will hook the leashes onto his wrist, then he and Abigail stood by as Will climbed over the gate, landing taller on the other side. He started scraping snow away with long swipes of his booted feet until he could swing the gate clear. He sniffed and cuffed his nose with the back of his hand. His pants were powdered white from the thighs down. 

“Thank you.” Hannibal said, as Will took the leashes back. 

“Sure.” He said, and squinted off down the lane at nothing. 

“When are you coming back?” Abby said next to him.

“I’ve made your father play host for far longer than intended." Hannibal said. "I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

“You’re always welcome!” She said, and tugged on Will’s coat. “Isn't he always welcome, dad?”

The diffused grey light of the snowy day seemed to make every minuscule detail of the world stand out in hyper definition. Hannibal could see gold flecked in Will’s eyes. 

“Yes.” He heard Will say, then dark lashes replaced the blue and gold as Will looked down at his daughter. “Of course he is. But he’s allowed time to himself if he wants it. It’s his vacation, after all.”

“I know.” She said, defensive. She was lurking on the outskirts of sulking territory. She kicked at a small snowball near her feet and Weegee jumped after it, only to have it fall to pieces when he grabbed it in his jaws. 

“Let’s get back before we freeze, Abs.” Will said, gesturing towards the plowed corner from whence they’d come. Her mope turned up a notch but she did turn back, dragging her boots through the tilled snow. Will raised his eyebrows at her dejected retreat. 

“Are you quite ridden with guilt?” He asked Hannibal, low enough that Abby wouldn’t hear it.

“Positively rife with it.”

Will looked up at him, opened his mouth as if to say something but then shut it again. 

“Door’s always open.” He said, and left it at that. He followed after Abigail, their seven collective dogs kicking up the snow as they ran on ahead.

  


* * *

  


Her late night had rolled into an early afternoon and now Beverly sat, with an empty-eyed stare, at Hannibal’s dining room table. A half-chiseled block of hard goat cheese, slices of cured meat and two split apricots sat on the plate in front of her.

She glanced at her phone when it started buzzing on the table.

**Z**

“Good _lord_.” She muttered. “Fuck _off_.“ She picked up her fork and stabbed one of the apricots. The fruit yielded a resistance that wasn’t entirely unlike human flesh. The buzzing continued, then stopped as her voicemail took over. She was just reviewing the merits of blocking Zeller’s number while she stabbed more fork holes into the apricots — _I should, I shouldn’t, I should,_ like plucking the petals of a daisy — when her phone interrupted with a single, short buzz. A text message stared back at her. 

  


pick up, Bev.

_Zz_

it’s urgent

_Zz_

people are looking at me funny

_Zz_

and it’s starting to rain 

  


Against her better judgement, Beverly looked up at the windows. 

The glass was speckled with raindrops.

She stood up so fast that the noise of her own chair scraping against the floor startled her. On the table, the phone started buzzing again. She swiped it up.

"Brian, where are you?”

"Outside."

"Outside, where?"

"Could you just buzz me in?"

"You couldn't _possibly_ be in any position for me to buzz you anywhere, you don't know where I am!"

"Beverly I'm standing on a soggy cobblestone street staring through a gate at a courtyard of lemon trees could you perhaps yell at me inside before someone calls the polizia on my sad, wet loitering?" 

Beverly was sweating. She gaped at the empty room around her, overwhelmed by this latest development in Zeller’s Zero Regard Variety Hour. 

“Bev.”

“B—“ She started. “I— “ She tried instead. 

“Please.”

Beverly blinked down at her phone, watching the passing seconds of open connection tick by. She hung up. For a moment she just stared out the window, then she crossed the apartment and slammed her fist on the buzzer. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the wall by the front door and waited.

She heard his footsteps come up the stairs and stop outside the door, but he didn’t knock. He stood there for a moment in silence. 

“Beverly.”

“When I said I was in Italy it wasn’t an invitation.” She told him through the door.

“I know—“

“What are you _thinking?_ How the fuck did you find me?”

“I miss you, Bev. And I… may or may not have tracked your phone.”

Incredulous, Beverly lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re _stalking_ me now?”

“Beverly, come on—“

“I’m not going to let you in.”

“I was hoping to talk face-to-face.”

“Tough shit. You’re not supposed to be here. This is my vacation _away_ from you, or didn’t you hear? I’m so _sick_ of you walking all over me and _my_ needs just to suit your own.”

“Traveling ten hours is no walk in the— ”

“World’s _SMALLEST_ violin, Brian.” She interrupted, raising her voice. 

“Can you just open the door.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I gave you a few reasons already, pick one.” She said, and pushed off from the wall. “I’m walking away now. Have a nice flight home.”

“... I love you, Beverly.”

She was almost clear of the front room but she still heard it loud and clear. Boy, did she hear it. She charged back across the floor, flung the front door open wide and grabbed a startled Zeller by the front of his coat, all but throwing him into the apartment. 

“No you _don't_.” She spat at him. “No you fucking _DON’T_ , Brian! Love assumes a certain level of respect for another person. If you loved me, you would have _respected_ this distance I put between us, I even _told_ you that’s what I was doing, but here you are at just an _astonishing_ new level of your classic disregard.”

“I thought you might be a little bit happy to see me.” Zeller mumbled. Beverly beseeched any number of deities to explain just how common sense seemed to have failed this man so completely.

“You are ENGAGED, Brian! To someone else! Do you not understand what that means? Does Price know where you are right now?”

“He’s visiting his parents.”

She blinked at him. “Oh my god. You have to go. You have to get out of here.” She said, and started shoving him bodily towards the door. 

“W— Don’t I get to say _sorry_?” 

“No. I don’t care. Go.”

He managed to turn and face her, temporarily thwarting the forced exit. 

“Bev, listen. The holiday party. I didn’t mean for the announcement to happen that way, they sprung it on us as much as they did on everyone else. I never intended for you to find out that way.”

“You mean you never intended I find out at all.”

His expression was too soft, looking down at her. “I didn’t want to lose us.” He murmured. 

Beverly held his gaze. If her expression was soft, it was soft in the way that anthrax powder is soft.

“There is no us.” She said. And once she did, once it was out there in the air between them, she realized with some surprise that she _meant_ it. Zeller clearly hadn’t prepared to meet that particular response.

“But… you…” 

Slowly, a smile broke across Beverly’s face, like the first rays of sunlight piercing through a month of clouds. 

“Oh my god. You know what, _thank_ you. Thank you for this.” She said. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but a completely unwarranted gate crash can really make it open its eyes.”

“What are you talking about?”

Beverly shoved him out. 

“Me! Finally, blissfully, and completely done with you.” She said, and let loose a giddy laugh. “I’ve got to give it to you Brian. You are _stellar_ at grand gestures, but you’re utterly shit when it comes to remembering in which direction to point them.”

Zeller just blinked at her, gobsmacked. 

“Go home to Jimmy.” She told him, not unkind. “He’s a good guy, you won’t want to lose him, too.” She gestured him off with a flick of her head, then let the door swing shut between them. 

Done. Gone. _Free_.

Pivoting on her heel, she threw her fists into the air and released her bubbling joy as a victorious whoop. She wanted run out into the rainy streets of Florence and _dance_ with it she was so happy. Her iron ball was lifted and she felt light enough to float away. 

A tentative, one-two knock on the front door kept her firmly grounded. She expected to find Zeller still standing there, ready with a new plan of attack, but Zeller was gone. Instead she found Dimmond, standing on the mat and looking very blown-past. 

“Who was _that?_ ” He started to say, but didn’t get far before Beverly grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him down to her height, kissing him decisively as she dug her fingers into his soft hair. 

  


* * *

  


Thankfully, the snow over Manchester decided it had done enough and tapered off around noon, only a few stray flakes still falling from the heavy cloud cover. 

The Volvo was broken from its drift and sat pouting in front of the detached garage, its body throughly iced and powdered white save for the back half of the driver’s side window and a face-sized scribble on the front windshield. The garage door stood open in a frozen yawn and a little red snowblower sat like an obedient watchdog just outside, company to the car it had helped to rescue from its tomb of white.

The stretch of the Graham front yard was a maze of winding, curving channels. In a few places, the snow had pulled up to reveal patches of crushed grass. The two busy figures responsible were currently stuck. 

“ _Puuuush!_ ” Will groaned, throwing all of his weight against the giant ball they had managed to roll. This far, but so far, no further. Next to him, Abby’s boots slipped and slid as she tried to gain purchase and shove along with him. They were still ten feet from where their other rolled snowballs lay, all a little more oblong than spherical, arranged large to small side by side, but this one had grown too big and wasn’t budging. 

“My feet won’t stay!” 

“It wants to move, look at the bottom! We gotta rock it loose, keep shoving like this, maybe we can—“

“YAY!”

Unexpectedly, Abigail broke away from the effort and started running down the yard. Will straightened up and his sightline shifted past the tree trunk that had been blocking his view. 

Hannibal was halfway down the street, heading their way. He was still too far away to make out his expression, but when Abigail ran up to meet him in blustery excitement he greeted her by holding out his hand for her to take. 

Despite himself, Will felt a small measure of relief. He’d worked too many brain cells earlier second-guessing Hannibal’s comment about worn welcomes, wondering if that was his painfully diplomatic and roundabout way of hinting that he’d grown tired of them himself. But now, watching his daughter walk with him, hand-in-hand, up to their house, he could confidently release that anxiety. He even had to bite back a smile: it was barely five hours since they’d last parted ways. 

Abby came running back to Will, leaving Hannibal to make his own way up the driveway. 

“He’s gonna help us, dad! He’s gonna help us move it in!”

“Are you sure about that?” Will said, half to his daughter bouncing next to him but mostly aimed at Hannibal, who had crumped his way over to them and stood, unassuming, freshly-shaved chin tucked into the folds of his borrowed scarf and the accompanying earmuffs snug behind the lines of his sideburns. Will regretted the tasteful selection of his charitable contributions to Hannibal’s winter wardrobe: if he’d gone with bright colors instead of charcoal grey and black it might have toned down the intimidating dignity of his bearing. 

“I’ve heard it wiggles and requires little more than an extra push from someone, ideally, of my stature.” Hannibal said, tossing Abby a little smile. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“I don’t know if it’s—“ 

“I know my limitations. You are not subject to liability.” 

“That’s not reassuring.”

Hannibal brushed it off and braced his gloved hands against the pugnacious boulder of snow. “Where are we going?”

Will muttered something unintelligible under his breath but indicated the largest of the three other snowballs and braced to start pushing as well. 

“Right in next to the big one. On three. One… two…. _three!_ ”

The mound immediately broke loose and started rolling with an ease that Will wasn’t prepared for, almost dumping him onto his face. Hannibal caught him under the elbow and they managed to follow the giant snowball as it kept rolling, taking advantage of its building momentum. It came in faster than they’d bargained for and slammed against the other snowballs, an abrupt stop that jarred them enough to send them toppling into the snow. Abby threw her fists into the air in victory.

“YEAH!” She shouted, and ran over to find them behind the snow mounds. Will was lying on his back trying to catch his breath. He craned to look down at Hannibal, crashed on his side right in next to him. 

“Are you okay?” 

Hannibal lifted his head. The brassy sweep of his hair had fallen across his forehead; a curtain over eyes that were alight with humor. 

“Fine. You?”

“Oh, dazzling. Just down here making snow angels.”

Hannibal sat up. “But is the snowman okay? He appears, himself, to have toppled from his prophesied heights.”

“Oh, he’s since undergone a dark transformation.” Will said.

“I see. And what is the shape of this metamorphosis?"

“A dragon!” Abby chimed in. “See? This is his body, his head’s gonna come around over here, and that’s gonna be his tail.”

“I see it.” Hannibal approved, climbing to his feet. 

“Dad, let’s do his head and neck now.” Abby said, grabbing Will’s arm and trying to pull him out of the snow. Instead, they heard two muted pops and Will groaned. 

“What was that?” Abby said, startled.

“My neck and shoulder.” Will said, blissful. “Do the other arm.” 

“It sounded bad!”

“It felt good.” 

“I don’t want to.” Abby said, doubtful. Hannibal stepped in and held out his hand. Will gave him the arm in limbo and then sighed, rapturous, when Hannibal popped it. Hannibal pulled him to his feet and he bounced up, clapping his hands together.

“Who’s ready to intimidate the neighbors?”

  


Three hours, three sets of soaked gloves and pant legs, and three thoroughly pink noses later, they stood at the curb staring up towards the house. 

A great white dragon lay curled in the middle of the front yard, the bulk of his snow-boulder body thinned after relief-carving the shapes of his folded wings. His head lay closest to the street, a long neck curving to connect it to the body, which then tapered off into a long tail. A ridge of horns traced the length of his spine. Will looked down at Abby.

“How’d we do?”

She was staring up at it with wide eyes, their removed vantage point giving the afternoon’s laborious sculpting an entirely new life. 

“He looks _REAL!_ ” 

“We did good?”

“We did SO GOOD!” She yelled, and Will laughed as she jump-hugged him, overcome with giddy accomplishment. He was too sore to hold her for long but she was off again anyway, running circles around them in loud celebration. 

“You can even see the scales from back here.” Will marveled. Beside him, Hannibal held up the spoon responsible. 

“Not for naught, then.”

The light was quickly fading in the neighborhood around them. As they stood there watching Abby wheel around the yard, the street lamps began to blink on down the road. 

“It must be after five.” Will said, and let out a lengthy sigh. It lingered in the air before dissolving. “Thank you.”

Hannibal glanced over. 

“This wouldn’t have been what it is without you.”

“Dad where’s your phone!” Abby yelled, standing up by the dragon’s head. “We have to take pictures!”

“It’s on the coffee table inside.” He called back, then lowered his voice to speak normally. “We’re probably just going to order pizzas and watch Christmas movies, dad doesn’t much feel like meal production tonight. I could hazard a guess that pizza scores pretty high on your list of the culinarily repugnant, but you’re welcome to join us.” 

Hannibal’s eyes glinted in the fading light. 

“I have yet to sample an American pizza.”

“You are now _obligated_ to join us.” Will decided, and started up towards the house just as Abby emerged with his phone in hand. “Hey Abs what kind of pizza should we order to be Hannibal’s first?”

“Hannibal’s never had _pizza?_ ”

Fingers numb, muscles sore, and vaguely limping again from his week-old puncture wound, Hannibal advanced towards judgement, his heart singing with every step.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (◡‿◡✿)
> 
> Yep, still going! Sorry for the crazy long wait on this chapter. Every time I had a chance to come back to writing it, I'd find myself stuck and I'd end up working on a later chapter instead or even, a few times, on a different fic altogether. Then, a few days ago, I decided I'd scrap what I had and start over with this chapter. Guess that's what it needed. :))
> 
> When I was younger, my family used to build elaborate sculptures in our front yard when we got a good packing snow. We built two emperor penguins one year, a big ol' turkey during one Thanksgiving snow, and my favorite was, you guessed it, a dragon.
> 
> For those of you (like me) who just came out of two winter storms and a polar vortex: trigger warning for snow


End file.
